An Improvement on a Hatstand
by TheRimmerConnection
Summary: During investigations into Charles Augustus Milverton, Holmes feels obliged to seek out Watson's help in expanding his knowledge and abilities. The result is rather more intriguing than Watson might have imagined... once they've got the hatstand out of the way, at least. Slash, my friends.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: They may be preventing me from doing any real work, but that doesn't make them mine. Clearly the dialogue that is recognisable is from Granada's 'The Master Blackmailer' and even less mine than the rest. It's all based around that version, rather than the 'Charles Augustus Milverton' story version, because the sequence of events suited me better... and because it gave me a good excuse to repeatedly watch Jeremy Brett taking a bath ;)_

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'Watson.'

'Holmes?' I looked up from my journal. Holmes was perched in the window, knees drawn up to his chest in his customary manner, looking slightly on edge. Earlier in the evening, upon my return, I had suggested a way of trapping the vile Charles Augustus Milverton, and having him arrested. He had pointed out the illegality of my idea, which had irked me a little, since I knew that Holmes desired his destruction to an even greater extent than I. He had reassured me, however, with a comforting hand on the shoulder, and a confident statement that the man should be caught soon. I thought that having taken his bath and had time to think, he would now expound upon his own ideas, but I was wrong.

'I am experiencing some little difficulty; a matter upon which I consider you to be a greater expert than I.'

I frowned, I could only think that it was a medical matter, as there are few other subjects upon which I would imagine Holmes could possibly either wish or need to consult me – many of his other areas of ignorance being readily filled in from books or newspapers. 'Go on.'

'There is a...a girl, a maid at the house. Purely for the purpose of acquiring data, you understand...'

'Of course,' I replied, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice. The idea that Holmes would actively pursue any female for purely personal reasons seemed utterly alien.

'It is vital that she believes me to be in love with her, and I rather think she does. But I am having...problems, and it is bothering me.

'Bothering you?'

'Yes. When I have been... shall we say, _courting_, the girl, she has been of a mind to tumble upon the grass, and to kiss me.' He stopped, giving no indication as yet of the reason for his exposition of this episode. His hand waved through the air, dismissing the sentence I was about to form.

'I did not know what to do, Watson. Oh,' The hand waved again, 'I do not mean that I did not know how to kiss. I have done so on occasion, when necessary, so you may cease that disbelieving grinning.' He stared out of the window, apparently captivated by something on the dark street below, then glanced at me furtively. 'I mean that those actions which accompany a close embrace of that nature do not come instinctively to me. When I was younger, perhaps I might have been better equipped to... but on this occasion, I found that I could not find the actions to suit the scene.'

He stopped, his hands clutching reflexively at the knees of his trousers. I spoke,

'But you said she believed you? So your performance must have been...appropriate in some way or other.' Again the quick glance in my direction, searching my face for an answer to something I could not fathom.

'Yes. I believe she found me... touchingly naïve. That is somewhat demeaning to a man, even a man of my character. I don't suppose you have ever been accused of any such thing, my dear fellow. But this is meant to be something entirely commonplace, is it not? When one is caught up in the moment of the kiss, one's... one's hands, one's arms, find their resting place, their movement upon the other, quite instinctively. I have observed it time and time again in the embraces of others. So why did it not come naturally to me when I was placed in a similar situation? _Doctor?_' He spoke the last word as if my status as a medical man well qualified me to answer his question.

The fact was that I had several answers, none of which I could comfortably share with my friend. That he was not a normal man? That his brain did not function as did those of lesser men? These were facts of which he was well aware, yet for me to suggest them as possible reasons in this case would not have endeared me to him. That he had no interest in women, unless it be that they presented an interesting problem or, in one case of which I could think, an equal adversary? That was a fact that he would accept, but not countenance as an explanation.

'Why does it matter to you, Holmes? I would have thought that such knowledge was unimportant as regards your work.' I expected a tut – he has always been so strong in his avowal that no extraneous information should be allowed to fill up useful space in that great brain of his. But I did not hear a tut. Instead, I received an answer.

'Watson, you know perfectly well that on many occasions, not least the one in question, my undoubted talent for disguise, for mimicry, has allowed me to inveigle my way into situations which have made it possible for me to obtain invaluable data for the solving of the case. My failing did not matter this time. The girl believed me; found it touching. What if the next time I am called upon to express such, such physical affection, the recipient is more worldly, more suspicious, _notices_ my apparent lack of interest? Can such affection be learnt? How is it achieved, Watson?'

I shook my head. How does one begin to explain something like that? Holmes was right. When I kiss a woman, the placement of my hands, beyond a certain regard for what is socially and morally acceptable, is determined by some part of my brain over which I have little, if any control. If my hand clutches at my lady love's shoulder, if it rubs across the soft skin at the nape of her neck, if, as I pull away, my fingertips brush through her hair and my palms cup her smooth cheeks, well, what of it? I don't know _how _I do it, how I choose my actions, so I could not possibly explain it.

'Holmes, it's just something you... What _did_ you do with your hands?'

'I did not know what to do with them. At last I may have rested them upon her shoulders, I do not remember. I know it was insufferably awkward.' His nose twitched in a dissatisfied sniff and I rose from my chair to retrieve my pipe, which I had left on the table at breakfast. Now, at the other end of the day, I sought refuge behind its glowing bowl.

My pipe lit, I went to sink back into my chair, but something about Holmes' posture stopped me. There are times when he appears so utterly defeated, and at such times I always fear for his health, he slips so easily from his moods of fiery energy and enthusiasm to those darker moods where he is liable to seek solace in activities I cannot and will not condone. I stepped up to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Are you all right, old man?' He slipped off the windowsill and strode to the settee, perching upon it with his hands round his knees. I pulled the blind down over the window, where he had raised it to look out, shutting out the deepening darkness, and watched him take up his own pipe. The wrong one, I noticed: the one that always means I am about to be forced to put up with a truly foul mood for the rest of the evening. I decided to attempt to avert the unpleasantness. 'What can I do, Holmes? I don't know how one learns to...to touch another. You can be so aloof, yet I have seen you touch many people, upon the arm, upon the shoulder. A pat on the back, or a grasping of the hand are not alien to you, even with virtual strangers, even with women – it is only when they throw themselves at you that you lose the ability to respond. I have seen you,' I added, pointing at him accusatorially with the stem of my pipe. 'And you touch _me_ often enough.'

He regarded me for a second, then turned away, feigning boredom. 'You are hardly a lady to be kissed, Watson. You are my sounding board, my...' He seemed not to be able to state exactly what I was, and his hand fluttered vaguely by his temple. 'My friend.' I felt unsettled, his peculiar moods often make me restless and I have found myself pacing, just like him, when it happens. I ended up behind his seat and rested a hand once more upon his shoulder.

'What can I do then? What is it you would achieve?'

'I should like...' He drew himself up, replacing the pipe upon the table. I let out the breath I had been holding. The disaster was, perhaps, temporarily averted. 'I should like, when confronted with such a situation again, to have a set of rules available to me that will allow me to set my hands upon the lady with perfect confidence, no matter how my mind revolts at the idea.'

'You have held Mrs Hudson to your bosom with confidence, I have seen that, too.'

'Ach! Mrs Hudson! That is as if I suggested that you had intimate carnal knowledge of your bed-sheets. No doubt they are warm and comforting and wrap you about with softness, but they are hardly comparable to the arms of a woman... I imagine.'

His analogy was ridiculous and I scoffed audibly at it. He looked up at me, and his gaze followed me around the room until I stood before him once more.

'Well?' he asked. My mind whirled: it does, when Holmes asks certain things of me. It is as if his mind, which thinks so clearly, may suck the same quality of clarity of thought from those around him. I was also unnerved: Holmes does not like to be taught. He loves to learn, to read, to observe, and thereby expand his knowledge, but only a fool would sit down and try to instruct him, I see him as a most difficult pupil indeed.

'Well, if such things may be explained and taught, I suppose I might instruct you upon the simple placement of the hands, but such a keen observer as yourself can surely acquire that knowledge without my help. It's not the placing of hands, my dear fellow, it's the feeling behind it, and I fear, if that does not come naturally, then even a doctor cannot...' Holmes leaned back in his seat, then, suddenly bouncing forward, stood before me.

'Well then, Doctor, what little you can do, I shall take.' He strode around the room, and suddenly spotted something. A hatstand, draped about with coats, and of a height to place the shoulders of those coats just a little below the level of his own. 'Here!' he exclaimed, beckoning me closer. 'See, this hatstand will prove an excellent stand-in for the female form!'

I could not help my amusement. 'Really, Holmes, I know your experience is not extensive, but I would hardly say...'

'Hush.' Holmes was adamant. I shook my head in exasperation, and scratched my head as I tried to think of a single move that would appear natural and loving, when applied to a coat-laden hatstand, or indeed, a person.

I stepped up to the hatstand under Holmes' watchful gaze.

'I suppose...' I reached my arms around the foremost coat, feeling utterly ridiculous. 'One might...' I laid a palm flat against the fabric, but the shape was all wrong and I could not remotely imagine myself to be with a woman. Holmes tutted at me.

'What is _that_, Watson? I cannot see a thing.'

'I cannot do it, Holmes. The hatstand just isn't a suitable substitute.' I whirled on him, feeling ill-used.

'Well, about me then, for goodness sake.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'About me. Watson, don't be so squeamish. You have held me _in extremis_ on a number of occasions. The doctor in you positively yearns to get your arms about me and feel about for some irregularity or other; so don't pretend coyness now.'

He spoke the truth, I have held him in my arms, many times, following injury, illness, personal assault, and once (though I would never dare do it again, following the reception that first time), when I first came across him in one of his terrible black moods and mistakenly thought that he was, under it all, only a man, whose state might be improved by some close human contact. I would not like to comment regarding his perception of my 'yearning' to put my arms around him. Perhaps the sense of it was true, but his deduction of the motive was – strange as it seems – inaccurate. I had no choice, however.

'Come here then.' I stepped up to him and raised my arms. I felt terribly uncomfortable, particularly with Holmes standing there like some damned statue, all animation having left his face at the moment of my agreement. I was not about to kiss the man, but I pulled myself against him, one arm over his shoulder, the other struggling under his own arm, where it hung stiffly against his side – he seemed to have frozen in place. I huffed in exasperation, my breath whistling past his ear and making him flinch. 'For God's sake man, relax a little, will you? You asked me to do this. Now...just...mirror where my hands are. You feel where they rest on your back? Well, match your actions to my own.'

His voice, when he replied, had that studied tone of boredom about it which I associate with his moments of greatest interest in a subject upon which he has professed to have _no_ interest.

'Very well, just so?' I felt his hands come up to rest stiffly upon my back, copying my own movements. I faltered, and attempted to improve the demonstration, by imagining Holmes to be a woman... but I couldn't do it. No matter how I tried to trick my brain, closing my eyes and pretending that the shoulders under my hands were dainty, not broad and strong, yet he remained solidly Holmes, and it did not make the slightest difference. By which I mean that his being Holmes did not make it any harder to produce the desired, instinctive reaction. I found myself clutching at him, my face turning in, towards his, so that my nostrils were filled with his rich, tobacco-laden scent, and my cheek rubbed against his, accepting the roughness of his skin just as easily as I would the smoothness of a lady's cheek. His distinctive 'Holmes' smell, so familiar from countless carriage-rides, and muttered exchanges, let alone our shared rooms, seemed to invade my skull in fast-moving tendrils, pushing out rational thought and sending rapid, clutching spasms to my fingertips, which had me twisting the fabric of his waistcoat in my hands, while my mouth opened against his neck, the better to breathe him in.

It was around this point that I realised that his own movements had lost their starched stiffness. The immovable statue in my arms had turned back into a living man, whose hands were, if not as frenzied as my own, at least as warm, and pulling me just as tightly against him as I pressed him to me. His hair, freshly washed and untamed by his usual oil, brushed against my ear and tickled across my cheek as he, in turn, buried his nose in the hollow below my jaw. For a moment my straying mind thought he was merely copying me blindly, but then I heard his voice muttering, and his lips moved up, close to my ear.

'John...' His use of my given name stopped me in my tracks for a moment, so rarely does he use it.

'Yes Holmes,' I breathed, barely able to get the words out, and not daring to attempt the extra syllable required for his first name.

'What is happening to me?' he asked. His arms tightened about me, then his lips were gone, and his head moved past mine, but towards me, not away, until his chin was hooked tightly over my shoulder, and he was wound about me, clinging on as if his very life depended on it. I could hear those faint groans he makes sometimes when he is alone and in some mental distress.

I returned the pressure, gripping him tightly, not only because the situation seemed to demand it, but because the blood pounding in my veins was making me light-headed, the thoughts screaming around my brain were enough to make me cry out, and the overwhelming result of all those thoughts was that I did not want to let go of this man. Not now. Not ever. I wanted to hold on to him – that was not a new thought, but the sensation that went with it was. As was the incredible desire to kiss him, to follow through this little lesson in closeness, and actually kiss the man. I cleared my throat; this line of thinking would never do, it was causing me some problems that would become immediately apparent to Holmes in a moment or two, if he remained pressed so closely against me, body to body, all the way down.

'It's...You're not used to it. That's all...' I tried to sound professional and uninvolved, but even I was not convinced. I was all too aware that I was experiencing the most intense arousal, from this man, my good friend, whom I had loved dearly for years, but never... To be honest with myself now, of whom I never _allowed_ myself to think in the manner I truly desired.

'I am not alone,' he murmured in reply. And it was partly a statement of fact, partly a response to my feeble diagnosis. He squeezed me more tightly, then, never being one to hide from a difficult situation, he pushed back until he could look me in the eye. 'This lesson has been most instructive, my dear friend. Did you intend it so? No...' he answered himself quickly, before I could get a word out. 'No, you are as surprised as I, and besides, it was entirely at my request.' He stared into my eyes, that rapier gaze that can transfix the most uncaring criminal and cow the most cynical heads at Scotland Yard. It always sears me to the centre of my soul. 'So what now?'

He watched me as I tried to form an answer. Various ideas presented themselves, many of them medically inadvisable. The best of an inappropriate selection seemed to be that I should step gently away from him and claim to have been carried away with a fantasy wherein his body had transformed in my mind into that of a female. He had often accused me of being easily distracted by the fair sex. However, the man in front of me was Sherlock Holmes, and a subterfuge so basic on my part would not deceive him in the slightest. Besides, it occurred to me suddenly, I loved the man. Do you willingly push away a man who has almost admitted to you that such feelings might be reciprocated? Well, yes, if you have any sense, that is precisely what you do. I can only claim that Holmes prevents me from being an altogether sensible man.

I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his top lip. He did not move, but my moustache must have tickled his nose, because it twitched. Encouraged by the lack of a punch in the face, I kissed him again, full upon the mouth this time. His lips parted for a moment in an expression of shock, and I felt his breath mingling with mine in a new and thrilling manner. Then his lips pursed, and he returned the kiss, breaking away afterwards and fixing me with an endearingly boyish look that exiled all severity from his face, while his hair flopped down to his eyes to complete the image. He did not smile, but seemed to be fighting a battle between what I hoped was an unexpected calmness – the same calm overtaking me at present – and a frightening collection of thoughts regarding what had just happened. He let go of me and I regretfully started to back away. But then he reached out and took my hand.

I thought he would pull me back, or maybe just use that hand to hold me in place while he spoke, but instead, he turned so that he was next to me, my hand still held tightly in his, and he began to pace. He dragged me alongside him for a few steps, until I got the idea, then I kept pace with him of my own accord, but still his grip upon my hand did not slacken. Back and forth we went, he took the turn at the end of each run more slowly than is his usual custom, to allow me to make the longer turn around him, then we returned in the other direction. We carried on in this vein for more than half an hour, and far from being bored by it, or worried by his silence, I felt as if I had been let in upon the secret thought processes of Sherlock Holmes, and all the time I felt his touch, burning the most pleasant of all flames against my hand.

I let my own thoughts wander – as much as they could with most of my awareness so taken up with him. At the very start of the current case, Lestrade had arrived, unannounced, in our rooms, in an attempt to acquire the letter delivered to Holmes by the Colonel's batman. There was a suggestion that, despite his forthcoming marriage at the time of writing, the substance of the particular threat of blackmail under which the Colonel was living, or rather, no longer living, was related to some indiscretion with another man. Lestrade had been confused at first by the reference, but had looked directly into Holmes's face, asking for a solution, and had seemed to find one immediately. A little discomfited himself, Lestrade had accepted that such things do happen, that this would not be the first time... But now I recalled the sharpness of his gaze as he stared straight into my friend's face and noted with some care that it would not be the last. Holmes never broke his gaze. He and Lestrade had shared some understanding at that moment, I was certain of it now. Lestrade knew that Holmes would... and it did not seem to make the slightest difference to him. I think that was the first time I realised just how well our dependent policeman understood Holmes, and, despite his many protestations, liked him.

At long last Holmes slowed his pacing, his face cleared and he stopped, turning to face me. I waited, unwilling to say anything, for fear it was the _wrong_ thing. He started to speak almost immediately however, his pacing takes some important part in the ordering of his thoughts.

'Watson,' I felt a little, unexpected sadness at the return to my surname, but then, that is more like him. 'Watson, I am concerned that something wholly unusual just occurred. Having stated my problems regarding my reaction to the girl, I now seem to have gained all those missing powers of response in your presence.' He grimaced, 'I feel like the pocket-watch that stubbornly refuses to lose time under the observation of the watch-mender.'

'No, Holmes, this was clearly a normal reaction. You reacted naturally, so I did not need to teach.'

'Ha!' he replied, suddenly looking much happier, 'Yes, your idea must have been correct. With the girl there was no real feeling, so I was unable to produce a convincing reaction. Whereas I hold you in the greatest affection, my friend, and therefore the actions suggest themselves. Well, that is all satisfactory. I shall simply observe my own actions when I am with you, and apply them the next time necessity dictates.'

I frowned, he seemed to be disregarding the most important aspect of the case. 'But Holmes, this is most damnably awkward.'

'It is? Oh. I see. You fear the knowledge of your attraction to me spreading outside these walls. Well, my dear fellow, I understand the importance of your reputation and I shall do nothing to endanger it.'

He runs so far ahead of me at times that I am told my own mind before I know it myself. 'No, I never thought you would, my friend. But as to the knowledge of my attraction being known within these walls... Surely you have no real interest in that direction? I know you too well.' I tried to make it sound like professional concern, rather a desperate desire to know the truth. 'Love of that nature... sex...is not an interest of yours, except where it touches upon a case. Do not pretend otherwise.'

'You assume a great deal. It is not an interest in the common way of things. That I do accept, but I am, despite your occasional misgivings, human, Watson.'

'I do not doubt your humanity, Holmes, I would not care for you otherwise.'

'Listen,' he snapped, suddenly acid. I nodded, ignoring the shift in his temper, this was, after all, an unusually emotive subject for us to tackle. 'I have few friends, you are aware of that, people are of professional interest, and the plight of mankind as a race...' he made another vague gesture. 'Yet I have, for years, been captivated by you, Watson, by your friendship, by your honesty, by your love. In that embrace, I felt as I have not felt before: a quickening, I would judge, of that sense of calm and support that I take quite unthinkingly from you whenever you accompany me on a case. I do not recognise the passion that burned through me when you held me just now. It felt as though I might leave my fleshly body and rise above myself.'

He paused and I felt myself gaping at him, yet there was nothing I could do. Sherlock Holmes was, it seemed, admitting to the closest thing such a man as he could approximate to love, or at least, one of the higher forms of lust, for me. And I wanted that. There was no doubt of it: I desired him. He regarded me with his usual gaze, which I noticed was, indeed, more loving in its aspect than that with which he favoured most other people of our acquaintance.

'My dear friend, would you be so good as to repeat the lesson?' He let go of my hand and stood before me, immobile as before, waiting for me, as if the question were already answered. He is rarely wrong, and when he is, it is often I who spot it. I saw no error this time, so I stepped towards him, slipping my arms around him once more.

This time my actions were immediately reciprocated. I heard the sharp intake of his breath as this lust he could not possibly understand within his normal spheres of knowledge swept over him again. I felt his left hand moving slowly up to my neck, rubbing the skin there with the calloused tips that press the strings against the neck of his violin with such fluidity. I gripped him tightly, drawing my palms across the taut fabric of his dressing gown. The smell of him seemed intensified, the tobacco smoke now parting its thick blanket to reveal a headier, more animal smell, the scent of sex, emerging to lie heavy and unusual upon the skin of one who had not, to my knowledge, created it before.

I pressed my lips to the skin of his neck, eager to taste this new aroma. He gave a grunt of uncertainty as I flicked his neck with my tongue, drawing a little touch of him back into my mouth.

I drew back and looked at him, his eyes were hooded, but no longer with boredom or disdain. A certain fire burnt within then, which terrified me, even as I leant forward and allowed our lips to touch once more.

The touch had the effect of an electric shock upon him this time, both his hands shot up to clasp in my hair, jamming my mouth against his, holding me in place. His lips moved against mine, then I felt his teeth, tugging lightly at my bottom lip. I made a small involuntary sound and he stopped. He did not pull away, but his fingers relaxed in my hair. I did not move, just remained in place, my lips still hot against his, the puffing air of his panting breaths escaping between our joined mouths. I thanked God, who may not be too pleased with me now, but still deserves my recognition, that the modest belly I have developed through these latter years of good food and good company, pushed me away from him enough that my honest, but not altogether welcome, arousal was not pressing into him and giving me away.

After a minute or two, during which his breathing slowed again and I managed to will myself to greater calmness, he stepped back, rubbing his eyes, and spoke,

'This has been a tiring day, Watson. I wish to go to bed, but I must ask you if you would indulge me by joining me there?' My heart skipped a beat, surely even Holmes had enough of a grip on private niceties to realise that you do not just leap into carnal knowledge of a person on the first day that you declare your love, no matter how well you know them. But he went on, 'No, no, no, no, no; that is not what I am suggesting at all. Extract your mind from the gutter, Doctor, and come and keep me company now that you have thoroughly confused me.'

I could not refuse. I removed myself to my own room to perform my evening toilet and don nightclothes, then I returned to him. While I was alone, I considered dealing with the certain little problem that had arisen while he kissed me, but by the time I had undressed and washed, things had settled a little and I decided against it. No matter how careful I was, Holmes would know, and I could not face his smirking. I regretted my decision, however, as I slipped under the sheets he held aside for me, and felt his warmth along my side and smelt the aroma of him surrounding me. It sent me plummeting into lust once more. In all honesty, I was astounded. I am no longer a very young man, and to react so powerfully is, thankfully, no longer commonplace. He did not attempt to hold me, but simply lay next to me, turned on his side to face me, his eyes almost shut. I turned my head to look at him, feeling a little awkward now, and he nodded his head, indicating with hooded eyes a point further down the bed.

'You should do something about that,' he said, 'It will interfere with your sleep.' He was not displaying amusement it, or even, God forbid, disgust; simply pointing out a fact. I should have known that I would not be able to hide it from him, but the knowledge that I had been found out embarrassed me and made me edgy and defensive.

'You should do something about it, it's your fault,' I snapped. So much for my earlier shock at his suggestion of bedding down with me.

His eyes narrowed, but then he looked away, as if he were giving an answer that was not quite honest.

'No. No, I don't think so.' That melodramatic arm waved above the sheets once more and I wondered what, in that case, he expected to happen between us.

'Shall I leave then?'

He jumped, 'No! Stay here, I beg you. Do what is necessary. I can hardly object.'

Still I hesitated. Quite apart from the fact that it is a private thing, Holmes allowing it did not make it lie any less uneasily in my mind, especially to do it with someone lying next to me. My soldiering removed most of those doubts a long time ago, and I am firmly of the medical opinion that the practice does more good than harm, and certainly it does no lasting damage in moderation, yet still society frowns, and I am more beholden to the views of society than is my good friend.

I looked at him once more and as he turned to me I fell in love again and I knew I would have to do as he said. I could not watch him watching me as I started, so I covered my eyes with my right hand, being accustomed to favour my left in this matter, and I reached down and began to stroke myself.

I could feel his eyes on me at every moment, but as I went on and common inhibitions fell away, it mattered less and less. At last, no longer feeling the need to hide, I brought my hand down from my face, bringing my arm back under the sheets, out of the chill night air.

Holmes reached out and took my cold hand. He clasped it in his own, squeezing my fingers in a way that seemed almost tender. His touch improved my fantasy immeasurably, and my climax was swift and powerful.

I lay on my back, recovering for a moment, my hand still clutched by Holmes. I fumbled with my nightshirt, cleaning myself of my emissions and tugging it back down. Then I relaxed against the same pillow as Holmes, squeezed as we were in the narrow bed, and I heard him make a small, satisfied sound. I could not feel whether or not he was aroused, indeed, I could not say whether what we had done was enough to bring a man like him to such an uncomfortable state or not, I had not tried to find out, for which I cursed myself. I should have liked to have known.

As I relaxed, I felt him move. He let go of my hand, rolled towards me a little, shuffling around, then his hand dropped in the centre of my chest, a possessive gesture that made me catch my breath, and he seemed to fall instantly asleep, with the whistling of his breath gusting past my ear, and the ends of his hair tickling me pleasantly.

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_A/N: Reviews craved and deeply appreciated :)_


	2. A Naked Torso

The next day we rose before Mrs Hudson had the chance to come up and catch me in Holmes's bed, and somehow we managed to interact with each other as if nothing had changed. In truth, it had not. I knew now that I had always loved him, and, in his own way, he had always felt something for me. He had always watched me in that uncommon and open way, always touched me or taken me by the hand, where another might have just spoken. Our embrace had not altered that, not in the same way that a more fully sexual encounter might, and we continued our investigations together, with no noticeable visible signs of our last night's activities, I think; except, perhaps, that I found it harder to drag my eyes away from him than I had before. For his part, I think the idea of sexual encounters, of that manner of relationship, is so unusual to him, that he places it in a compartment in his head, and only takes it out to consider when he is forced to do so. We were not in bed, or talking about sex, so the thought did not enter his head. He saw me as his friend; John Watson the lover, the kisser and embracer was not a part of that, so, for the time being, he did not exist.

I found myself at leisure several times during the day, apart from Holmes, and as I settled myself at the luncheon table, as I waited to be served in the tobacconist, as I strolled along the street leading home, my mind wandered along its own pathways. In my fantasy, Holmes came to my bed, much as he had at night, but this time, he chose to assist me in my affliction. His touch was sure, my release swift and, with regards to my real and living body, I could barely sustain my neutral countenance, barely hold in check the increase in heart-rate, in breathing, the gasps of pleasure which should accompany that act. With my coat fastened from top to bottom and my hat pulled low, I suppose any signs were not visible in the street, but the urge to go to my room and indulge myself once more was one I struggled to overcome.

I could not remember wanting somebody so much. Especially not a man. It is hard to make the comparison - although I have always admitted to myself that I am attracted to both men and women, and have indulged myself with both at various times, the attraction is different. What I might feel for a woman is different to what I might feel for a man, my reactions differ and I am inclined to behave differently towards them. Yet both reactions might truthfully be described as either love or lust, depending. One is not a poor substitute for the other, but I think I would feel a poorer man for never having experienced both. This feeling for Holmes was too strong, however, to be dismissed as a whim. I could not shake my daydream, his solid flesh under my hands, his heart beating close to my ear, those long fingers closing about me. How many times has he grabbed my hand to pull me into hiding, or out of danger, or just, it seems, because he'd rather take my hand than not? Every instance now seemed to present itself as lost time, though they had all burned themselves into my memory: I had never been oblivious.

Now, returning home to Baker Street, if found that my daydreaming had made everything much worse for me. I stood by the window, looking out at a scene of no discernible interest, just as he had done the night before. It is the coward's method of sharing a room with someone you desire. A moment of bravery had let me regard him openly for a full two seconds upon opening the door, before I realised I had gone too far in my mind and would be hard-pressed to maintain a veneer of respectability. His frock-coat suddenly seemed an unnecessary barrier, his waistcoat a locked gate against me. I longed to yank his necktie from under that starched collar, pop the studs and slip my hands beneath his undergarments; press my palms to his sides and feel the great biological machinery of his body, that coiled spring, always ready to do the bidding of that great mind. There, I have at least one thing in common with Holmes's body.

It is one of the great mysteries of the human brain, that I, as a doctor, may undress, or see unclothed, specimen after specimen of mankind, including this, my friend, and through it all, never even consider the sexual aspect of the situation. Yet the idea of seeing even the least portion of Holmes' naked torso in this new light produced in me the most discomforting tension.

He easily saw my agitation, took off his coat and stood directly behind me, looking over my shoulder at the uninteresting scene that currently filled the window.

'Watson,' he said, and a sort of amused disappointment filled his voice. I did not turn, not trusting myself to leave him be – one cannot simply throw oneself at a man such as Holmes. In a moment, he stepped away, moving to the table where he keeps his current experiments. Now I dared to turn. He sat at the table, his back to me, and I settled myself on the long settee, staring across at the pictures on the wall.

My mind wandered again. It conjured me a Holmes who stepped out from the still, thoughtful body of my friend and walked around the chairs towards me. He stopped a foot away and reached out a gloved hand. I did not take it – he did not exist. He tutted at me and reached down, taking up my own hand from where it rested in my lap and lifting it to the buttons of his waistcoat. He and I then shared the undoing of those buttons and those of the shirt beneath.

I rested my hands flat upon his chest. Through the fabric of his undershirt I could feel the rapid beating of his heart. I wanted to speak, to ask him what he wanted, but I could not break the silence, and we have always communicated well without words, so to use them now seemed ultimately unnecessary. He broke from me the next second, flopping down onto the seat next to me, resting his elbow on the back behind my shoulders. Quick as a flash, he flicked his legs up to rest on mine and raised his other hand to my cheek, holding me in place, pulling me slightly towards him so that he could kiss me. I returned the kiss, while my hands found the edges of his shirt, pushing it back off his shoulders and down his arms. He laughed – that singularly joyful sound I am so seldom privileged to hear – and batted my hands away for a second while he fiddled with the cuffs, removing the links easily, even with the gloves, so that he could slip the sleeves over his hands and allow the shirt and waistcoat to drop to the floor.

I watched as he removed his undershirt, and his eyes observed me narrowly all the time. The room was not overwarm, and I saw him shiver. I reached out, pulled him against me, and held him as tightly as I had that first night. My fingers pressed against his bare skin, sending tingling sensations up my arms and I let them slide down to the waistband of his trousers and below, His breath was quick now, and I brought one hand round to open the fastenings of his trousers. In a moment I was holding his length in my hand, weighing it, rubbing it with my thumb, and Holmes twisted his hand in my hair, tugging painfully. I heard his gasp, his stifled 'Hey!' and, as I pulled on him, starting up a rhythm I thought might excite him, I felt his forehead fall against mine and remain there, as if he were trying to feel the vibration of my thoughts echoing through his own skull.

I wrapped my free arm about his shoulders, rubbing there with my fingertips, in sympathy with the rubbing of the hand in his trousers. He was so greatly aroused that I did not expect it to take long, and I pulled him further onto my lap, although it did not give me an easier angle for pleasuring him, simply to sit him against my own erect member, where I might gain a little pressure, a little friction, as I did not expect it purposefully from him.

His climax was shattering for him, shaking his body from head to toe. It ground his hips into me, vibrating against me, and I was already close, so that it pushed me over the edge, and I groaned with him.

'Watson?'

Holmes' voice shook me out of my reverie, and my daydream-Holmes vanished, but the wetness in my trousers did not.

'What is it?' he asked. I shook my head, wondering how I could get to my room to change without falling too much under his scrutiny. He got up and crossed to me, standing in front of me, a look of concern upon his face.

'I beg your pardon?' I desperately feigned confusion, as if I had not just let out a passionate groan of release. He stared at me for a second, but his experiment was, thankfully, of far too much interest, and he went back to it, his profile sharp and clear against the light of his Bunsen burner.

He reappeared at my elbow, pulling at my sleeve, his torso entirely naked. 'John.' That killer word again, 'I know you want me now, this instant; it is by far the simplest deduction I have ever made.' He stood in front of me, looking down, as if to direct my own gaze.

I licked my lips, reaching towards him and opening his fly again. His erect member sprang out as I released it, and he knelt astride me, up on his knees so that I could reach him without leaning. I took him into my mouth, using every trick I knew that could be performed in such restrictive circumstances. He groaned and laid his hands upon my head, just heavy enough to direct, not to control.

My tongue teased him, savouring his flavour, the musky harshness of him, and my lips felt the rough brush of dark curls fighting out of his trousers. Then his hands gripped my hair more tightly and I pressed my hands against his hips to steady him as he thrust into me, then I tasted him in my mouth, and I swallowed loudly.

When I opened my eyes he was gone.

'Ha!' he shouted behind me, 'Watson, come and look at this!'

I got up warily, but my earlier exertions were still keeping my body in check, and I could at least walk over to him fairly normally. I noted with rather ambiguous emotion, that my mind was behind the times: he had already removed his gloves.

He showed me the small sample of hair we had collected the week before. 'Watch.'

He dipped it into a beaker of some liquid he had mixed up, shook it dry, then held it in the flame. It flared bright purple for a moment and he smiled one of those infectious smiles.

'See? Our man must have been there before the explosion took place, otherwise the chemicals would have burned out of the air and we would not be seeing this coating reacting in this way.' I fought my mind back to the problem and saw his meaning,

'Ah, so Mrs Fenner was lying and he was the culprit.'

'It seems so.' He looked up at me, eyes shining with the thrill of the case. 'You know, my dear Watson, if you wish to undress me, you would do better to put your request to me, than to trust to the dubious inventions of your own mind.'

I opened my mouth to protest, then remembered to whom I was speaking and decided not to bother. He got up from his chair, threw a cloth over his chemistry equipment, and strode to his bedroom. I watched him through the open door as he dipped his hands repeatedly into his wash-bowl, scrubbing them clean. He returned to me, still wiping them dry on a cloth – an action I found stupidly, almost unbearably sensual. He threw the cloth back carelessly over his shoulder, then proceeded to remove his jacket-coat. He was making a start on his waistcoat buttons, when I stopped him.

'What are you doing, Holmes?' He paused, sniffed, then looked at me in no little confusion.

'I was undressing for you. That is what you desired. You know very well that it is utterly pointless for you to try to deny something so plainly –'

'Wait, just one moment,' I interrupted. 'Last night, when we went to bed. You wouldn't touch me, not in that way, at least, and you gave me no encouragement to touch you either. I thought you had no interest in –'

'Would it be easier for you if I didn't?'

'No!' I blurted out, before I even thought what I was saying. He smirked as I tried to recover my composure. 'What I mean to say, Holmes, is that I would be only too delighted to... to do something of that nature with you, but not against your wishes, not against your nature. Not just because you think you should, that it is necessary to indulge me in this way. I am not so very uncontrolled that I could not... after all, one day I shall marry again, and there will be ample opportunity...' I trailed off, staring at the carpet, my mouth open, not believing that I could possibly have been so callous as to say that. It was true. Whatever he and I might do now, I was not the type to live indefinitely in a state of bachelorhood. For men such as myself, it is never a question of whether we shall marry, but of when. No matter how much we may wish that it were not so, that a sometimes greater desire might be enough to satisfy society as much as it satisfies ourselves; this is not the case, and the _love of a good woman_ is required, and given time, one might fool oneself into believing it to be enough for any man... if one is lucky. However, be that as it may, to admit to such a bleak future in front of a man who has just half undressed himself for your pleasure is tantamount to slapping him in the face and I looked up, with the most humble apologies already halfway to my lips, but Holmes did not appear remotely upset.

'Well of _course_ you will, my dear fellow, and I am sure the lady will be very happy with you, and at the same time, sadly unaware of what a treasure she has bagged.' He didn't seem to be embarrassed by this flattery – from time to time he _does_ flatter me, in the most generous terms. I wonder if each time it has been an attempt to tell me that he loves... 'But in the meantime, I am not working against my nature. Last night I was tired and somewhat surprised by the turn events had suddenly taken. I have been working hard on this case, as have you. I admit, given the disgust I feel for our adversary in this case, it is a rare delight to suddenly have something so pleasant to come home to.' Now he did deign to look just a little embarrassed, and I really could not help him. He straightened up and started work on those buttons again.

'Stop!' I exclaimed. This time he looked positively murderous.

'Watson, I am burning with a strange and noble passion. It is directed at you, and if you wish me to stop, you had better leave the room, than stand so tantalisingly close, yet protesting.'

'No,' I gasped, taking a step towards him, 'I did not mean you to stop altogether. Only that I should rather perform that task myself.'

His face cleared. He nodded, and brought his arms down, spreading them in welcome. I reached for the waistcoat and slipped it off him, turning my attention to his shirt, his undershirt, until his torso was as naked as it had been in my daydream. I placed a hand on each side of his ribcage, feeling my way down until my hands rested on his waist, palms filled with his solidity, and I realised why it is that reality is so much better than dreaming. The intensity of sensation, his tobacco-smoke aura, the two badly-mended broken ribs – one of them had a provenance well known to me, of the other I could not be sure. His life, when he is active, can be just a little too dangerous, and he has been known to pick his fights badly.

On his arm, because I knew where to look, I could spot the needle's track, from his last round of bored depression. I looked away. I did not want him to be annoyed with me for making my displeasure felt once more at his only real vice. So instead of his arm, I looked at his face, directly into his eyes, which stared back, pinning me in place. I learnt what I did not already know of his eyes in that long moment. How the lid of one was slightly squarer that the other; how the grey of his iris could alter, chameleon-like, into a hundred other shades; how I could almost see the cogs of his mind turning in the deep, dark pupils; but most of all, how deeply I had always loved him looking at me – those shared glances, the twitch of an eyebrow, or the crinkle of a corner, barely visible to the world, but meaning the whole world to me.

I brought my hands up to his shoulders and pushed down on them. He seemed uncertain for a second, then allowed his knees to bend, sinking slowly, not knowing how far I wanted him to go, allowing me to order him for a while. When he had lost about four inches in height, I squeezed his shoulder, stopping him, and leant forward. Now I could reach his eyes without stretching, and I bent my head and pressed my lips into the corner of his left eye, taking it from wide incomprehension, to closed acceptance in a single breath. I heard his gentle inhalation, a moan of pleasure such as I have heard him make upon his first sniff at a fine new tobacco.

I remained there for a moment, inhaling the aroma of his pomade, my fingers sinking lightly into the soft skin of his shoulders, my lips tickled softly with the confined fluttering of his eyelashes. His head tilted slightly, pressing towards my mouth, then he pulled back a little, muttering,

'Knees, Watson.' I let him go and he rose to his full height once more, sighing at the relief of his muscles and joints.

'Why did you wish for me to be half naked?' he asked. 'There is nothing you have not seen before.'

I paused, trying to understand myself. After a minute or so, during which he sat himself down in a chair by the fire and watched me over steepled fingers, as unconcerned by his nakedness as any small child, I decided I did not know.

'It is a human thing, Holmes. To desire access to one you love, unhindered by clothing.'

'Love,' he said, in that peculiar way of his. The word rolled around on his tongue, exiting his mouth in a soft exhalation. He gave no meaning to it, merely tried it out, as he has on countless occasions when it has come up as a motive or as a victim in a crime.

His eyes followed me as I moved away from him to sit in the other chair. It was then that I realised that I was still fully clothed, with an uncomfortably moist groin, and a sense that I was being quite abominably rude.

He closed his eyes for a second, shaking his head minutely.

'Not at all, Watson. I know your pattern from collar to the tip of your bent big toe. The details of your body are firm in my mind. I could draw you from memory, my dear fellow... Hah!' His face suddenly splintered out of its calm repose, shattering into wholehearted laughter. He giggled. And I must say that I considered it carefully, but giggled is the only word for it. His eyes flicked repeatedly over to me, as if to confirm that laughter was indeed called for, or to ensure that I was joining in. And I was. Oh, if Holmes could pretend and plan laughter such as that (and while I regard his acting skills most highly, I do not consider him _that_ good), he could not have played more perfectly upon my spirit.

When he had calmed himself, and I was busily wiping the tears from the corners of my eyes, he got up, reaching for his shirt, and put it on. I must have looked slightly forlorn, for he tutted gently at me.

'Now, now, Watson. I am delighted to be able to indulge a whim of yours,' (he had clearly conveniently forgotten his own 'noble passion') 'once in a day, but you would be the first to warn me against the dangers of an outburst such as bringing our estimable landlady up the stairs to enquire after our health. And...' He sank back, fastening the shirt over his chest, an air of somewhat falsified ennui settling upon him once more, 'She will only fuss over me if she thinks I am sitting around catching chills from the draughts.' He glanced at me once more, and his eyebrow twitched. 'Another day,' he said, and if I could not fathom his meaning entirely, I understood enough to realise that I would not see more than Homes' extremities revealed for the rest of the day.

I sighed, took up my paper, and tried to teach myself not to be disappointed.

Later that night, I lay in my bed, wondering over the events of yesterday, and even more, those of today and waiting to fall asleep. Sleep, however, did not come; my mind was too busy with thoughts of Holmes and what he and I had done together in his bed. I wished, although I would never have pressed him for it, that he might have suggested a similar arrangement for tonight. Of course, it was not ideal – his bed, made for a bachelor, was not designed to take two bodies comfortably. However, if he wished to drape himself half over me all night, the lack of width would be of much less moment, and I certainly would not object.

I was still lying back on my suddenly hard pillow, when I heard a creak upon the stairs. My first thought was still to reach for my gun. Years outside the army have not trained that trait out of me. Then I realised that I recognised the tread, and I blinked in the darkness as Holmes entered the room, bearing a candle. He held it up so that it lit my face and I shielded my eyes.

'Holmes?'

'Clearly. May I?' He gestured at the bed and I nodded, not at all sure to what I was agreeing, but willing to trust him. As usual. Damn his confidence.

He set the candle upon my little table and lifted the sheets so that he could slide under them, next to me. His dressing gown hit the floor as he discarded it, and he turned to me directly, grasping me either side of my face. I could feel the pulse beating in his thumbs. He brought his face so close to mine that even in the dim light, I could see each individual dot of emerging beard, pale and barely pushing above the skin.

'I found my bed suddenly lonely without you, Watson,' he admitted. 'It pains me to say it, but you appear to be a greater addiction than ever the seven percent solution could be.'

I was not sure how to reply to this. I would happily accord with anything that kept him away from that vile drug, but I did not wish to be a mere substitute. However, since we were currently engaged upon a case, that seemed an unlikely explanation. I shrugged and he blinked at me.

'You have done something to me, Watson, made me need this touch, which I have never even looked for in the past.'

'I have done nothing, Holmes, but give in stupidly to urges I have been subduing for years. Now unless you have a specific activity in mind for me, I was planning on sleeping so that I may not fall asleep during whatever engagements you have planned for me tomorrow.' I may have sounded unduly sharp, but I can only claim that I was surprised and still suffering unreasonable pangs of disappointment .

He suddenly rolled on top of me, squashing me utterly and I gasped out my displeasure. He shook his head and raised himself on his forearms, so that I could at least breathe again.

'Not much room in here,' he murmured.

'Get off, Holmes, you're crushing me.' I tried to push him off, but his knowledge of martial arts is on a par with mine and we were stuck in a stalemate. I wriggled enough to give myself some breathing space, then allowed myself to relax and use the opportunity to put to him some of my questions.

'Holmes, tell me one thing: in what way does this activity equate with everything you do being for your brain? I have a number of your words to that effect collected in my scribblings. The only exceptions I can see are your accursed addictions. So I can only presume that, as you have already intimated, I am merely a seven percent solution. After all, I have not been with you for this considerable amount of time, and not noticed that you simply do not feel the softer emotions. Where does this fit in?'

He closed his eyes in a gentle smile, touched his forehead to my chin, raised it again and spoke, with a slight smirk that put me somewhat on the defensive, despite our position.

'My dear Watson, the latter conclusion represents one of your many erroneous deductions, though I would admit that I have not given you much evidence to the contrary. As to your first point, how can you begin to imagine that this does not involve my brain? You have wound yourself around the convolutions of my cerebrum so tightly that I can no longer consider any problem without attempting to assess where you will be of assistance, my most admirable Watson. At present you are occupying my mind to such an extent that I find that when I am not in your company, half my capacity for thought is taken up with recalling the minutiae of your face. I find it...distressing, you see?' He rolled off me, onto his back, narrowly avoiding toppling over the side of the bed. Then he turned his head to face me, a rogueish twinkle in his eye, and that snap in his voice which denotes high amusement. It is a matter of some personal pride to me that I hear it most often when he is agreeably taken with something I have said or done.

'I find the best way to clear my mind is to look at you. At least, in that way, I can engage the correct sense in my study of you,' he continued.

'I still don't see why that leads you to feel the need to crush me.' I couldn't work out why this had so irked me, after all, it was, very nearly, the dearest wish of my heart to feel his body pressed against mine. Perhaps it was that I truly could not believe that he intended to do anything further, and the sensations caused by his weight and his scent, pushing down on me, had been leading me rapidly towards a repeat of the previous night's occurrences.

He laughed a barking 'Hah!'.

'It seems my brain has a closer confederation with my body in these matters than I might wish. It might have been apparent, even to you, my dear friend, that for some months now, I have been finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the urge to touch you, to lay hands upon you, to achieve a closer physical contact than is strictly permissible in our usual daily dealings. I find that a certain...' He drummed his fingers restlessly on the coverlet, then reached out and took my hand, absently lacing his fingers with my own. 'A certain undesirable agitation,' he continued, 'results if I do not satisfy this urge. No doubt you would classify it as a need arising from an emotional attachment.' He sighed, and his fingers clenched painfully around mine. 'I regret to admit that I begin to suspect that you may be correct.'

He looked at me again and I knew he would see the look of satisfaction on my face. I turned onto my side to face him, though it is my custom to sleep on my back. I shook my hand free from his and he grunted his displeasure, but I only did it in order to reverse our positions of the night before, resting my hand on his chest. I could feel his hesitation as his hand came up to cover mine. I smiled into the pillow – even now, even having spent a whole night in much the same position, his ability to accommodate this level of intimacy was unchanged.

Considering the situation and a mild case of arousal, thankfully not as forceful as the previous night, I dropped off to sleep quite easily.


	3. Pirouette

'Watson, you'll be interested to hear I'm engaged to be married.'

I wasn't really listening, an article in the newspaper taking up most of my attention, so I flung him a careless, 'Oh yes? Jolly good.'

'To Milverton's housemaid,' he went on. I realised then what he had said, and a chill went through me. I lowered my paper.

'Good heavens.' I couldn't even bring myself to express my shock fully. I knew that my 'lesson' had helped, given him first-hand information to draw on, but to have succeeded so well? He was behind me, but I knew he wasn't looking at me: even he realised that this was news I might find distasteful at present.

'I needed information,'

Yes, well I already knew that, but I couldn't believe that he'd allowed himself to get so carried away with his role. I know he is a fine actor, and when in character, behaves entirely _as_ that character would, but nevertheless, one does not toy with a young lady's affections in that manner. To kiss a serving maid is one thing – after all, many a serving maid has taken her pleasure with any and every fellow within her reach before choosing with whom she wished to settle, but to actually speak of marriage? That was beyond common decency. I told him so.

'Surely you've gone too far?'

'It was a most necessary step. I've walked with her, talked with her. Heavens, those talks...' He somehow managed to convey with those last three words a perfect agony of tedium, hours of tattle so far beneath the normal reaches of his intellect that it must have been very torture for him. I almost felt sorry for him. Nevertheless, as a gentleman, I could not let him carry on without realising that she would be hurt, for I could not imagine that he would actually go through with it, now that I had let it sink in. I prompted him to think,

'But the girl?'

'Can't be helped, Watson. One must play one's cards as best one can when such a stake is on the table.' He still wasn't looking at me, but suddenly he brightened and continued,

'However, I rejoice to tell you that I have a hated rival who will cut me out the moment my back is turned.'

My heart leapt, I should have realised that Holmes had a plan to extricate himself with ease, he always does, he would not wish to risk a true entanglement. The thought rang alarm bells deep within me. Was I not an entanglement? To cover my discomfiture I retreated once more behind my pipe and my newspaper, hoping he would take it for disinterest on my part in the details of his end of the case.

'What a splendid day it is,' he muttered. I knew for a fact that it was pouring with rain outside the window out of which he stared so intently.

'Mm?' I looked back around at him, since he clearly had not noticed my reaction, 'You like this weather?' He looked sad. For a moment I thought he was going to touch upon the matter of ourselves, so thoughtful was his look. But if he had been about to say any such thing, he was prevented from doing so by the arrival of a carriage outside, carrying Lady Eva. I was somewhat relieved to see her, for to return to the intricacies of the case might prevent us both from having to consider our position for the time being.

* * *

We had been out together, strolling about the local area, taking a look at the new buildings they are erecting at the end of the park. I had spent the walk enjoying his arm through mine – never before had it had the significance it now carried. Holmes, I have no doubt, did not even consider it, focusing his mind upon his scheme to destroy Milverton. We re-entered 221b, only to find that we had missed a caller. Milverton's card lay upon the stand in the hall, and told us to expect him later. He did not disappoint, but returned, and walked into our rooms with the air of confidence born of having a firearm one knows how to use in one's inside pocket. I know that feeling well.

'Mr Sherlock Holmes?' he said. Holmes nodded, still holding the door, as if, despite his plans, he could barely stand to allow him to enter our rooms.

'This gentleman, is it discreet?' Milverton asked, his very voice making me shudder. Holmes replied,

'Doctor Watson is my friend, and partner,' he added. Previously I had ascribed the word the meaning of a close colleague, but now... now the possibility of being his partner in life, in love, in... who knew what, nearly distracted me. However, the harsh nature of the case and the desperate unpleasantness of our guest brought me back to the present in a second. The interruption of a more pleasant line of thought may have made my attitude towards him somewhat harder and more obviously hostile than I should have aimed for on another occasion. Holmes permitted me to conduct most of the interview, with the exception of the odd muttering in my ear, which, combined with him perching upon the desk, close behind my chair, would have put me off, were it not for my disgust at the man before us. Holmes seemed to be too incensed to allow himself to take the lion's share of the conversation. Certainly he was utterly livid when at last he shut the door, and he sat at once to meditate, to calm himself. I was scarcely less agitated, and paced the room in his stead while he sat there in his unshakeable posture of calculated calm.

When he had completed his meditations, he sat upon the settee, and I joined him. We have rarely, if ever, shared that piece of furniture in all the time I have resided at Baker Street. We have always taken our chairs by the fire, staring across at each other. But now I sat next to him and he turned lazy eyes upon me.

'Tomorrow, Watson. Tomorrow we shall seek to gain the Lady Eva's co-operation in this matter. But as for today... I cannot bear to shout; there has been shouting enough. My dear fellow, would you go and request supper for us from our magnificent landlady?'

In the usual way of things, Holmes would not hesitate to shout loudly enough to bring the local constabulary running to our door in case of assault, but if he felt this way, I was more than happy to oblige. I cannot help feeling that if he were anyone else, Holmes would get very short shrift from Mrs Hudson. And rightly so.

I heaved myself off the settee, and his hand grasped mine for a second as it passed him. A gesture of thanks, if I'm not much mistaken.

I alerted Mrs Hudson to our requirement for supper. In the meantime, he bathed and donned his dressing gown. He has been washing with great frequency lately. At first it was to remove the soil, purposeful, and consequential, of his character, the plumber. But lately, I think, it was more to remove the unholy stench of our adversary. I could not settle until Mrs Hudson had brought in the supper and been waved away by my friend. Perhaps I was wary of sitting with Holmes and concerned about the potentially damning emotion that might show on my face were she to enter unexpectedly. As it was, I ate very little, and Holmes merely poked at his own plate. Some grand, tension-relieving gesture was clearly called for, and I sought for something appropriate.

I tend, now that I am getting on a little in years, to be a man of quieter habits. Yet I was once a soldier, and that fierce creature which must needs lurk somewhere inside every fighting man, even one professedly there for the purpose of healing the wounds of his fellows, still resides in me. It rails at unfairness and abuse, it allows me to countenance killing a man who has done evil. It also stirs when my passions are roused in another direction, when my heart beats hard with the fury of love, and I cannot deny that to be the emotion which now stirred, indeed, which had long stirred when I was in the presence of my good friend, Sherlock Holmes.

The animal was certainly waking now. Years of denying it had done nothing to tame that beast, and the sight of Holmes, pensive and unfeasibly lovely in his dressing gown and undressed hair was rousing it, now that it had once tasted flesh, to an uncontrollable level.

He looked up and saw me watching him. His lips twitched into the faintest glimmer of a smile. The beast in my blood roared and surged through me, and I took a step towards him, loosening my tie of necessity – I was having some difficulty drawing breath.

'Watson, my mind is still awhirl,' he said. 'The evil in this affair contrasts quite devilishly with the lack of any sort of proper exercise for my brain. I can barely hold a coherent train of thought. I want this over!' he snapped, 'I want it finished!'

'With Lady Eva's help, we shall finish it, soon,' I pointed out, soothingly, using every ounce of control I had not to growl it at him, not to give vent to my internal storms. I risked a small prod at his armour. 'Perhaps I can help? A little activity to exercise the body and calm the mind.' I left it halfway between a question and a prescription.

He was distracted, and muttered, 'Activity?' He looked up and comprehension dawned. His mouth twitched again, but his head shook minutely. 'I hardly think that the kind of activity you are proposing is best undertaken in a state of righteous anger, even if that anger is not between the participants.

_It damned well will be in a minute! _ my mind screeched. I pushed down the unworthy thought. Lack of interest from Holmes was hardly a revelation. Disappointment can be the most selfish of all the emotions. My temper rose as I absorbed his words, nevertheless. He was putting me off, and none too subtly.

No doubt the reddening of my face and the ticking of the pulse in my temple were clearer than a fit of shouting to him; before I had time to explode at him, he had jumped to his feet and his hands were on my arms, pinning them to my sides. His gaze locked with mine, and I could see his great brain working: the fact held me back from my own anger.

'You are angry, my dear friend,' he said, so low I could barely hear him. 'You hoped for something more from me and have been disappointed.' His 'something more' held all the meaning I could have assigned to it myself, and I listened in utter shock. I am used to hearing Holmes make his deductions now, indeed, I can, to a small extent, apply his methods myself, with satisfactory results. However, to have those methods applied in so personal and bald a manner is not something with which I am familiar. Had the last few days merely been an example of Holmes playing a game with me? I tried to shake him off, but he clung like a limpet. He murmured an addendum to his words.

'I cannot give you what you want at this time, my dear friend. Do not let yourself become so agitated by it. It is bad for your health.'

'Do not lecture _me_ about _my_ health!' I cried, finally breaking free. I stormed away from him, too frustrated to care that I was being wholly unreasonable. Despite, or perhaps as a result of my anger, for the mind works in peculiar ways with strong emotions, I was horribly aroused once more, and the knowledge that he would do nothing about it was burning through my chest like acid.

As I strode to the door, the skirts of my jacket caught on the hatstand and I was obliged to seize hold of it to prevent it from falling. Together we performed a sort of pirouette, the hatstand and I, and I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye, his one eyebrow raised in what may have been almost any kind of expression. I righted it, scowling, and stamped up the stairs to my room, not caring that Mrs Hudson would be aware something was amiss.

I slammed the door of my room behind me, tore off my jacket and slipped the braces from my shoulders. A twist of my fingers removed my collar, the cufflinks followed the studs into a bowl seconds later, and my shirt lay across the back of my bedroom chair before I had finished crossing the room. I opened my fly, leaned back against the wall, released my insistent arousal from its confinement and groaned as I poured all my anger into the motions of my hand: every slide, every twist, bearing witness to my frustration. I was close, very close, and my head was tipped back, my eyes closed as my knees started to let me slip down the wall, when the edge of my consciousness registered the click of my door opening.

Mrs Hudson always knocks, so I had no qualms on that front, but I should not have reacted as I did to the arrival of Holmes in the room. My hand stayed its motion for a moment as he slipped in and closed the door behind him, leaning back on it slightly, his face giving away nothing of his thoughts or intentions. I should have stopped, ordered him out, done anything to say he was not welcome, he who had left me in this state. I did not, however. I simply dropped my head back, and with no difficulty whatsoever, finished what I was doing.

My seed splattered over the hard floor, and I stood there, with that strange knowledge of just having done something unwise, which so often comes to us directly following climax. My hand was still down there, squeezing softly to bring me down gently. My eyes remained shut, and suddenly his hand was upon mine. He matched his fingers to my own, so that my hand was all he touched, yet the slight squeeze he gave before he removed it again made me wish I had not just spent myself with no hope of reaching that heady height again this evening.

When I opened my eyes, he was a few paces away, watching me intensely.

'I apologise, Watson.' The words startled me, they were not what I had expected. 'I did not explain myself well.' My anger had fled and I sank onto the edge of my bed, gesturing for him to take a seat. He chose the chair, and sat facing me, his hand on my trousered knee. 'I did not intend you to feel spurned. I will do... whatever it is you want...' he looked a little startled himself, as if he had not realised the truth until he spoke it. 'But not now. Not when we are in the middle of such slime and decay. I should not want to associate the great experiment you promise to be, with this filth in which we currently wallow.' I disliked his use of the term 'experiment'. It made me uneasy. Just another potentially useful case study for his files?

'No. Not at all. You are, it seems, intent on misunderstanding me today. Well, Watson, I can allow such an excellent fellow his foibles. You are an experiment I undertake for my permanent edification, not the mere fancy of an afternoon. I assure you, your disappointment is not a thing I desire to see.' He looked away, his head turning to the side, looking across to the door, before he glanced sideways at me, a furtive, guilty look, belied by the faint smile I could detect even from this angle. 'I prefer the look of pride you wear when you imagine I have performed some particularly remarkable feat...' Damn it all! I had hoped he had not noticed how often I fail to keep that evidence of my admiration off my face. 'Go to sleep, dear man, I shall clear up this...' he gestured at the floor, removing his pocket handkerchief and shaking it out of its neat folds. He mopped up as I watched, then slipped the square back into his inside pocket.

'A sample?' I asked, harshly, for to my shame I remained in a mental state that caused me to be unable to accept my dearest companion for himself.

His eyes hooded, his voice became sultry and he said softly, 'A keepsake.'

I believe I may have blushed. Certainly the anger suddenly dissipated, leaving me sorry and uncertain.

'Will you share my bed tonight?' I asked quietly. He shook his head, adding quickly,

'I shall not sleep tonight. Or very little. There are matters on my mind. I may sit in this chair for a while. Do you mind?' I indicated 'no' and he nodded and sat, watching me over his knees as I removed my slippers and trousers and got in between the sheets.

I lay there waiting for sleep and realised my strange position. Here I was, a man well into the second half of his life; a man with a good education behind him; competent, capable even, in his field; a man with as much of a liking and regard for his fellow creatures as anyone. Yet, I had no wife, no home of which I was master, no real security. The army, my subsequent drifting, and Holmes' interference with the regularity of my practice work has made my ability to lay down a proper nest-egg almost non-existent. So, here I was, as I said, lying in my bed, with the person I love most in the world sitting apart from me, in my chair, unassailable, unfathomable, willing to touch and be touched only when and how it suited him. Why should that satisfy me? Why should I accept that as the settled mould of my life?

I considered again the circumstance with which I had unthinkingly taunted him when we began all this. When I married... When I married... In the past I have dreamed it. At times I have lived it. But now the very thought made my stomach clench. To be separated from him again, no matter how pleasurable the reason... But how could it be pleasurable if he were not there? Sitting with my wife, knowing he was diving headlong back into his old, bad habits. Worrying about him. No, missing him. In truth, it would not happen. He would turn up on our doorstep within a week, explaining, in a wholly inadequate manner, why he required my presence on whatever case he was currently engaged upon, and I would abandon home, hearth and wife to follow him blindly once more. No, I would not be without him now. I knew then, lying there, listening to his faint breathing, that I could meet the most beautiful woman in the world, but it would not lead me to step away from Holmes forever. Maybe I would be distracted for a while, but I would always return to him. Cruel, perhaps, but true. The idea of parting made my blood run cold.

His almost tangible gaze should have kept me from sleep, but I was exhausted, and almost accustomed to his presence, even after so short a time. So accustomed, in fact, that if anything kept me awake a few seconds longer than I would usually have expected, it was the lack of his still and crowding presence in my narrow bed.

* * *

I woke in the morning to find Holmes shaking me by the shoulder, half dressed and vibrant with the thrill of the chase.

'Watson! Get up!'

'Give me a minute, Holmes,' I grumbled, only half awake as yet.

'Oh very well.' I could hear the amusement mixing with the exasperation in his voice as I forced him to be reasonable. I rubbed my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows.

'What's it about?'

'Hah!' he exclaimed once more, eyes sparking deep in their dark depths. 'We have him! Today we have an appointment to arrange everything. Lady Eva will meet us, she will allow us to use her as our bait. But we must not be late. We must meet with her!

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, searching with my toes for the slippers I habitually left on the rug there. He tutted and kicked them off his own feet. I found myself captivated by the sight of his bare toes wriggling against the floor.

'Watson!'

I bent down to put on the slippers, then stood up. He turned to whirl off down the stairs, but then appeared to think better of it. He strode towards me, arms outstretched. He has done it before, but I have always side-stepped it, taking his hand, or backing off just enough. Truth be told, I could never quite have trusted myself to behave appropriately if I had let him hold me. This time, however, I let him throw his arms around me, sensed the evaporation of his uncertainty and felt his lips come to rest on my forehead. I felt uncommonly daring all of a sudden, perhaps as a result of his distressing behaviour the night before, and twisted my head to catch him on the mouth with my lips. He had already taken one cup of coffee and at least a mouthful of kedgeree – clearly Mrs Hudson was up and about already, and under orders, whatever time it was. I was surprised – I usually need to force him to eat mid-case. Somehow, the longer I spend with Holmes, the more my brain automatically begins to run deductions with the slightest provocation.

'Do I have time to breakfast?' I asked, pulling reluctantly away from him. He was already halfway to the door by the time he answered me. The loss of his proximity made the room feel very cold indeed.

'My dear man, if I did not know that you require sustenance before joining me on an excursion, then I would not know you very well. Get dressed, eat, and I shall contemplate our plan of action while you do so.' He swept out, so I pulled on my clothes rapidly, still fighting with my collar studs as I started down the stairs.

Kedgeree was indeed on the table when I emerged into the sitting room. Holmes was sitting in his customary seat on the other side of the dining table, a second cup of coffee in his hand. He appeared more well-rested than I have ever seen him in the middle of a case – even his eyes lacked the black circles to which I had become so accustomed. I served myself some breakfast and ate as quickly as I could. By the time I was half-way through, he was up and pacing the carpet – wearing yet deeper into Mrs Hudson's hearth-rug. Glancing at the clock, I noticed it was not long to midday. He had let me sleep, had, in fact, given me nothing about which to complain.

I gobbled down the last mouthfuls and he was standing ready with my hat and coat at the door when I got up. I chased him down the stairs. and we hurried to the gallery to keep our appointment.

There was no lack of occupation that day. Lady Eva was co-operative. Holmes took a trip to see Milverton while I waited behind, only to be surprised by Lady Swinstead, visiting to ensure Holmes' reliability and care for Lady Eva, I think. Holmes returned while she was with me, and once she had left, was once again in that state of agitation that means his brain is working unceasingly.

That was when he suggested burglary. For all my bravado of a few days before, I did not like to think of such uncompromising law-breaking in relation to...to him. For myself, it would be foolhardy, yet, given the circumstances, I would not have hesitated. But Holmes... It concerned me. I pressed him to consider his position, the risk he would be taking.

'Think!' I snapped. He flinched and it calmed me, I slipped off my chair, crouching at his feet. 'If you're caught. An honoured career ending in failure and public disgrace.'

His eyes flicked, his demeanour suddenly frantic,

'What failure?! What disgrace?! Against defeat.' He stopped, the veneer of calm covering him again in a second. 'You know me well enough. That I would never adopt so energetic a course if another were possible.' I indicated vague agreement and he became more workmanlike at once. 'I must have those letters; and I have that house in the palm of my hand.' His certainty concerned me, and I stated, quite bluntly,

'The cudgel before the brain.' His little snort of acceptance was barely audible. I resigned myself to his determination and chose to ascertain the mechanics of his scheme. 'What of the odious Milverton? You think he will open his gates and invite you to stroll in?''

'Milverton will be at the dance as the guest of Lady Eva's.'

'That's monstrous, Holmes!' I shouted, appalled at his lack of concern for the young lady's feelings. It sent Holmes rocketing out of his chair and into his room. I suspect he noticed my aggravation and did not wish to face me. The fact that he has even that concern for my feelings should have been the most obvious clue to his attachment to me, even before all this began. He explained himself as he went.

'My self-respect and reputation are at stake: it's the only way.' He slammed the door and I yelled my frustration at the wood,

'Well I don't like it! Any of it!' I sat back in the chair with my pipe, trying to slow my racing heart. I knew that I would follow him, though. Even if it meant the end of everything, I would follow him.


	4. The Waiting

It gave me a moment's thought when I realised that the preparations I made for our evening of house-breaking came to me as easily as preparing my medical bag for a house-call. Even Holmes noticed, complimenting me on the perfect aptness of my decisions and arrangements. I pointed out that I had learnt my skills from a master – himself – which should, I suppose, also have given me pause, and certainly reminded me of the earliest days of our acquaintance, when I had thought him a master criminal in his own right.

I hated the start of our evening, the visit to the ball to establish our presence away from Milverton's house, and to see the man himself, drawn away from his property and in company with the very people he would needlessly destroy without a qualm. To see him there was like a knife in my side, but Holmes drew me on, slipping out of the gathering, and heading straight for Milverton's fortress-like house. Holmes' superb knowledge of the house gained us easy access, and he wasted no time in picking the lock of the safe. Together, we had just commenced the burning of his vile collection of the personal documents of the unwise nobility, when the man himself, returning unexpectedly, surprised us, but not so much that we could not hide ourselves in time. The lockpicks were another matter, and all the time he paced about the room, the two of us, watching from behind the long curtains, were in a perfect agony of suspense, lest he spot them protruding from the keyhole and divine our presence or move the remainder of the correspondence from its current hiding place.

At that point, everything became a strange dream. Lady Swinstead, veiled and upright as only the wronged aristocracy could be, entered the room, apparently by means of an appointment under a falsified identity, and taking the law firmly into her own hands, shot the vicious creature, firing so many times in her passion that the whole household was roused, but Milverton, the beast, lay well and truly dead. Then she left, and Holmes let go of my coat, where he had grasped it, and plunged, with me, into a frenzy of activity, burning the papers, and also removing all possible traces that might point to the presence of Lady Swinstead. Then we were away, but the chase was on, we scaled the wall, using a small outhouse to aid our ascent, and our pursuers gained on us as we climbed. For an instant, I, taking the rearmost position, was captured, but my assailant had hold of my boot, and it was loose enough, and my terror so great, that I was able to slip my foot from it, and make my escape wearing a single boot.

Holmes and I ran beyond all possibility of pursuit, greatly to the disadvantage of my old wounds, which made their presence uncomfortably felt. Holmes may have realised. He persuaded me to remove my other boot and bury it deep in a hedgerow, lest it should be matched to the one I had left behind, then he made me sit on a stump, while he strode away to the nearest dwelling, and somehow managed to borrow a small dog-cart to bring us back into town.

We had attended an auction of the late Charles Milverton's worldly possessions, and had come away with Holmes' pocketbook one hundred pounds lighter, and our rooms a marble bust the heavier for it. Holmes had demolished the thing, much to the consternation of Mrs Hudson. I did not care – he has a destructive streak which comes out from time to time in the most unlikely forms. Now he seemed disappointed, more, I think by the fact that his deduction of his opposing bidder's interest in the piece was clearly false, than by the actual fact of the lack of anything hidden in the bust.

He leaned back in my chair by the fire, and I decided to use the time, while he sat and brooded, to make a start on my jottings of the details of the case. However, before I had time to do more than take my seat and dip my nib in the ink, he sat up and stopped me with a word,

'No, Watson,' he said, gesturing at me to lay down my pen. 'There are certain aspects of which I am not proud.' His eyes were melancholy, and I did as instructed, for the time being. 'Please, bury this case deep...' I stopped listening to him. I was too caught up in the deep sadness in his voice to heed his words. However, I did cease my writing then, though, naturally I caught up later, but only for my own personal reference.

* * *

I had begun to doubt, I confess, that the end of the case would bring about the change in our physical dealings with each other that my body so desired. In the depths of my uncertainty, while he sat, silent and mentally absent in the chair, I let my mind wander back to that most incredible of circumstances – the first time he revealed himself to me after the years when I had presumed him dead. His regard for me then was clear – his playing of the game of disguise, even to the point of deceiving me, simply, I like to think, because he loved to surprise me and to see my wonder at his cleverness. Then the way he opened his arms, waiting for me to run into them, and I knew now that I would have done it. I would have run to him and been taken into those arms. At that point my emotions ran high: a sort of relief so great that it even suppressed my anger, which would, perhaps, have been my natural reaction to his long and, let us not forget, avoidable distressing of me. Then I would have kissed him, and no observer could have denied it was the kiss of a lover. At that point, all pretence of brotherliness would have failed me. As it was, the emotion was too much, and I fainted.

When I came round, he was so close, but the moment was past and I had lost my nerve once more. To finally find myself exactly where I would have wanted to be only enhanced my feeling of being looked after, then, when I was injured and hurting. The knowledge that those things had occurred assuaged my doubts somewhat: Holmes _could_ be very physically intimate, it was simply a circumstance so rare that my mind could not easily call upon it in its reasoning.

I had sunk my head into my hands as I pondered, and did not notice him return to consciousness of his surroundings, nor stand and move up behind me. Now I felt his lips in my hair, but softly, as if he didn't want me to know, and his hands rested lightly on my shoulders. His grip tightened, not consciously, I think – still half lost in his own deep thoughts. I raised my head, freeing my hands to come up to cover his, bringing him back to me.

'Ah, my dear Watson, my apologies, I am restraining you against your will.' He stepped back and I turned in my chair to face him. The single pace he had taken away from me seemed a full mile.

'No, Holmes, you would find it very difficult to do that, I assure you. You are very much within my will.' I wanted quite desperately to kiss him, but I did not know whether that was something I could do without him initiating it. I wanted to find a way to make him relax, to do the normal things that lovers do, at least when we were in private. An idea occurred to me: Holmes is at his most outwardly relaxed when he is playing a role – he becomes so absorbed in his character, that the usual mien of the man is overwhelmed. If I could get him to play it as a role – become the sort of man who would be easy company for this sort of thing, then we might stand a better chance.

'Holmes?'

'Ahum?' He seemed to feel the change of direction, and flopped down on the settee, watching me.

'I wonder, now that this is all over and we have a little time to ourselves once more, might we take a trip out into the countryside? A picnic or suchlike? My practice can do without me at present.'

'A picnic? With you? Delightful idea, delightful.' He was up and away from me in a second. 'I shall inform Mrs Hudson immediately.

He swept off, already calling for our landlady. I sat back, stunned. I had not expected him to agree so readily, and the point of the picnic had not yet been raised. On the other hand, if he were so amenable as himself, why ask for a different Holmes? Then I realised that it was late and I was not entirely certain that Holmes would not consider the middle of the night as good a time as any to take one's supper in the open air. Although the days were still warm, the nights were, by now, quite chill, and I had no intention of being dragged away from our fireside tonight.

'Holmes!' I called, rushing after him. He turned on the stair, and I saw that our landlady had already been disturbed from her quiet evening in. I took Holmes' wrist to guide him back up the stairs, but faced Mrs Hudson long enough to apologise heartily and inform her that the desperate emergency Holmes' cries had seemed to denote would, in fact, wait till morning.

Holmes tutted at me, but otherwise allowed me to push him, unresisting, back towards the fire. I gestured for him to sit, and took the chair opposite.

'We are _not_ going tonight. Tomorrow will do, or the day after. I should like to make a request or two, before we go.'

His eyebrow twitched at that, and he nodded, his chin jutting, making it a little bow of acquiescence.

'Anything Watson. I think I can trust you to be reasonable.'

This, perhaps, was what I had been waiting for, and I took the plunge. 'Don't come on our picnic as you, Holmes. I beg you. Would you come as...as...'

'I don't understand,' he said. I was staggered. Holmes_ always_ understands ideas.

'Come looking like you. I don't want to picnic with a stranger. But play at being somebody else.'

He shook his head. 'Who? Watson, you are being extremely obtuse.'

I smiled apologetically, then my serious thoughts took over.

'Come as a man who finds it easy to love openly, at least in private.' His lips curled at the contradiction. 'Come as the lover you wanted to be for that girl. Come as a man who can enjoy the intimacies which seem to agitate Sherlock Holmes so dreadfully.'

I had said it. It was out. For a while I feared I had mortally offended him. He sat back, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Then he looked straight at me with that clear expression he has when he has decided on a course of action and is convinced it is correct.

'You fear I will never permit the activities you desire. Hmm?' I nodded slowly. 'Well, you may have reason to believe that... Your suggestion is not without merit. My dear Watson, for the trust I have come to place in you, I will do as you request. I might borrow some clothes. Nothing outlandish, I simply find that wearing my own clothing prevents me from fully accepting my new character. Not tomorrow then, but perhaps the following day. I will consider the character which would best serve our purposes. But I warn you, if I do this for you this once, you will have to find your own way of translating anything we may achieve back into my own character.' I nodded slowly. He reached for his pipe and I lit it with a spill from the fire, lingering just a little longer than necessary, until he closed his eyes and blew a gentle stream of tobacco towards my forehead. The action, which I would have considered rude, even aggressive, from most men, felt friendly, even soothing, coming from him, and I leaned back to light my own pipe, feeling almost contented.

We took a train and went to the moors. It was my own fancy. My fondest memories of my time with Holmes will always be of our walks and investigations on the moors and heathland of this great country. Holmes comes alive on the moors, the atmosphere of those lonely, windswept expanses seems to suit him. We found a large outcrop of granite against which to lean our backs, carpeted in front with that springy turf that makes walking on some parts of the moors such a delight. I spread out the blanket, set the picnic things upon it, and together we feasted on Mrs Hudson's excellent idea of what constitutes a good outdoor repast.

Holmes had abstracted a strangely long-skirted green tweed suit from somewhere or other, and while it did not alter his appearance greatly, nevertheless, it was a constant reminder that he was not entirely himself today. In his general behaviour, he appeared unchanged: he still moved like Holmes, spoke like Holmes, took it into his head to vault stone walls with uncanny vigour, just like Holmes. But before we started out he had emerged from his room, reclothed and with a warning for me.

'Today, John, I am Sherlock,' he said. I sighed: if part of his character was to use my given name again, the seduction of John Watson would be a simple one. I would never have believed that to hear one's own name from another's lips could be so deeply emotive. '...and only today. My brother uses it too freely for _Holmes_' ears to appreciate it...'

He had his appetite back, and once we had finished lunch, we were both quite sated, and leant back to let our meals digest in peace. Naturally, given that it had taken over all our waking hours until very recently, both our thoughts flitted back to the case, and while I was eager to avoid ruining the day with thoughts of that evil man, and although I had no idea how knowing about Holmes' exploits fitted with the character of Sherlock, I was easily drawn in a little when he looked round at me and smiled, a gentle chuckle bursting from him as he said,

'Oh John, how wonderful to sit here with you, when all could so easily have ended in tragedy that night of our escape – our pursuers so hot on your heels!' He laughed again, and suddenly I could see why. In hindsight, with our villain dead, the victims avenged, and all, as it were, right with the world; our escape from the house appeared more comical than frightful. We sat there laughing together as we only do on the rarest of occasions. Holmes had his head thrown back against the tree, his face red as a tomato with the violence of his mirth. He knocked his foot against mine.

'Oho! John, you... Ha! Tearing... across the county... Mmhoh! In only one boot and one stocking-foot! Oh, my dear friend, how comical it was! Despite everything, how delightful!

By now, I was laughing at his laughter – his good humour was more infectious than any condition I have ever encountered during my medical career.

'Do, please, my dear fellow,' he went on, 'remove one boot now – the idea tickles me.' I saw no reason why I should, and I shook my head.

'Only if you will, Sherlock.' The name felt unusual on my tongue. He glanced at me, smirking terribly, and shrugged his shoulders,

'If you insist.' He bent forward and began to remove the boot on the foot nearest to me. Since this had been my only condition, I was obliged to reciprocate; he gestured at the leg nearer to him, and I drew up my knee, bringing my boot-laces within reach.

Holmes revealed a stocking which had seen better days. At some point it had been darned by Mrs Hudson. I recalled the circumstances: she had informed Holmes that the rate at which he went through his woollens had caused her to run out of that particular dark blue yarn. She had told him that she would have to leave it until she returned from the haberdashers the next day. Some perceived emergency had made it imperative that Holmes have it 'now, today!' and he had stated quite firmly that since he did not generally display his un-booted feet in public, she could 'darn the thing in scarlet for all I care!' It must have been a particularly trying week in our little household, for now I saw that she had done precisely that.

I watched him set his boot at his side, and did the same. He crooked his elbow, offering it for me to slip my own arm through – uncomfortable at this angle, but very cosy indeed. All the tension of the last weeks fled as I looked slowly around, taking in the deserted country, the bare rocks, furze and skinny thorn bushes. A few sheep in the distance were the only living creatures moving in sight, though the grasses rippled like the surface of a windswept lake in the light afternoon breeze.

'Ah!' He tipped his head back, and I thought he was dozing – his eyes appeared closed, but then his foot pressed against mine with purpose. I looked again – he was watching me through the most narrow of slits. When he saw I had noticed, he turned his head away, that gentle smile dancing around his lips again. I chose to let him lead the way – if he had decided upon a character, no doubt that persona would be equal to the task with which I had entrusted it.

His foot moved a bare few inches upwards, onto mine, toes curling, the scarlet stitch darting out of sight. The breeze was stealing warmth away, and the heat of his sole was welcome against the top of my foot. I pressed up into it, and his toes flexed, flashes of red as they moved. They tapped a dancing rhythm on my foot, striking, sliding, then slipping all the way across, his heel dragged lightly over, to fall by my instep. Our knees pressed together, he laid his calf along my shin, using the resistance to push his toes under my own, lifting them to the edge of their stretch, stopping before I had to tell him they would go no further. I held my breath. The sensation of resting my toes on his was intoxicating, the human memory of entwining one's leg with another's during the act of love so strong, and so welcome, that my body responded without a second thought. He noticed, of course, and tipped his head a little closer to mine, gripping my arm more tightly in his own.

'It is a well-researched fact that one person, being infatuated with another, becomes so intimately interested in their slightest attentions, that a brush of the hand, a simple passing of the salt may be enough to arouse their desire beyond all decency. What a perfect exemplar you are, John.'

How can Holmes make such semi-scientific observation sound like pillow talk? I grunted an acknowledgement, yearning to turn and kiss him, but determined to let him take his own time.

He took the hand of the arm I had twined through his own, and laid his palm to palm, finger to finger against mine. As his toes rubbed up the side of my foot, pressing and curling firmly enough to make me breathe in time with it, his fingers pressed mine too, matching the movements, carpal to tarsal, each distinct and fully intended.

I shook my head, my mind knew this was ridiculous, to be worked into a frenzy so easily, with just the mundane touch of palm and sole. I fumbled to loosen my tie and open my collar with my one free hand. He let me do it, never ceasing his movements, which made my task the harder to complete. Able to breathe freely once more, I let my head roll back, trying to will away the arousal I could not control. Why I should wish to do so, when this was precisely what I had asked for, I do not seek to explain; only that perhaps I thought it inappropriate to respond to this kind of touch, when others far more intimate from lesser mortals have sometimes left me cold.

I failed, as one might easily imagine, and as his fingers left their close communion with my own, drifting over my palm, and trailing across my wrist, I cried out, a helpless, primitive note that drew from him a small sound in response, a muted 'hum', signalling some satisfaction and contentment with my tone. his fingers rested there, feeling my blood pumping, hard now, through my veins, and he pushed closer, his hips and thighs pressed tight against my own, our shoulders crushed together, arms still awkward between us. And he moved, and I sank further, or flew higher, as you will, and when his hand moved from my wrist and cupped the side of my face, the way it had the day of his return, the stone behind my head seemed to melt around me, cushioning and wrapping me in all its thousands of years of patient waiting, as if it understood the endurance and restraint I had shown in my own waiting for this moment, when I was, at last, under orders from Holmes, and only Holmes, who had torn the rule-book to pieces in front of me and sent everything I had ever known flying away on the moorland breeze.

I opened my eyes a while later, to find that the rock engulfing me at my front was the solid, wiry form of Holmes himself, or Sherlock, perhaps. Following the lead of his own foot, he had turned across, leg between my own, his forearms supporting him against the ancient granite either side of my head. His knee pressed firmly against my groin, intensifying my pleasure, slowing the descent as I fell back to earth. I raised my arms. He had let them fall at my sides. I pulled him to me, his knee sliding back, away, until he lay askew upon me, weight on my good leg, looking me in the eye from no distance at all.

I waited. I had waited an age for this, I could wait again.

He took a breath, as if to speak, but left whatever words he had unsaid. Instead he pressed his open mouth against my cheek, his eyes closed, and breathed, soft ripples of breath across my skin, then tilted his head, rolling and sliding in imitation of the grace of his bow-arm when wrist and elbow move in harmony to perfect the freedom of the longest largo stroke. It brought his mouth across my own and I matched him, lip to lip, feeling the echo of finger to finger playing through my mind. His tongue took one languid sweep into my mouth, sliding across my own, claiming it as his, then it was gone, his lips closed with mine, pursing warmly for a second, and he pulled away, eyes flickering unstably open.

'John...' he murmured, trying out the name. Then he pushed away from me, so suddenly that I had no time to stop him. He knelt before me, as animated now as he had been languid a moment before.

'Watson... Yes, dammit, Watson! I do not need to play-act with you. Your notion worked to bring me to this point ,where I may admit that I am that man you wanted, somewhere, deep within myself. It is a place no-one else has the power or determination to reach, that is all. My dear man, you have worn away at me like water through a canyon, breaking me down layer by layer, and I had no idea you had penetrated so far. Forgive me.'

'Forgive you?' I croaked, with not a clue as to the nature of the misdeed for which I might have sought his repentance. 'For what?'

'For wasting time,' he said quietly.

He has always delighted in surprising me.

He took my hand for a second, then let it go, refastened his boot upon his foot, hiding the wanton patch of red, and began to clear away the picnic things. I sat, watching in wonder until it occurred to me that I might help him. I moved and realised my predicament. He glanced up at my grunt of displeasure, and twitched his nose, shrugging.

'This is why a gentleman such as yourself should always wear his long topcoat in the country, as in the town.' I had left mine at home, choosing to set forth only in my Norfolk. 'You may borrow mine, dear fellow, it is a little long, but I...' I realised then that I had not returned the favour he had done me, and a worry crept into my mind that this had done nothing for him. 'I am already wearing a longer jacket,' he finished, winking at me. The concern left me, but not the outlandish sense of wonder that so basic an encounter could have been good enough for us both. I took his coat as he passed it. It was too long, but not unmanageably so, and the fabric oozed Holmes from every inch, so that as we walked away, the blanket and hamper and my walking stick swinging from our hands, I seemed to walk through a land thick with the scent of Heaven itself.


	5. Teaching the Hatstand a Lesson

It was late afternoon when we approached the inn whence we could take a cab to the station. I wondered whether it might not be better to take rooms there for the night, as the last train back to London would get us in at an unpleasantly late hour. Then I thought about spending the night apart from Holmes – I would not risk a liaison in a public building, albeit the favourite haunt of star-crossed lovers. I could not countenance it.

Besides, Holmes was in an odd mood now, and I was anxious to see him reinstalled in familiar surroundings and entirely out of whatever fragments of his 'disguise' still hung about him. He kept shooting intense glances at me, often accompanied by a contented curl of the lip, or, occasionally, by a look of utter confusion, the root of which I could not be certain. Perhaps my awareness of this was simply because I knew him so well, and knew what we had just done. However, I did not like the idea of risking so clear an indicator of our situation.

The cab dropped us in good time to catch the train, and once aboard, we found an empty compartment, sitting opposite each other by the window – the hamper, void of all its good provender, slung upon the rack above my head. A couple of times I started to speak, only of trivial things: the lights of a farm, a moment when rain pounded the window for barely thirty seconds before ceasing entirely. Holmes, however, pointed a hushing finger in my direction each time, and with a little shake of the head and a click of the tongue against the teeth, indicated that he would appreciate my silence. He was smiling – as far as Holmes ever smiles in normal circumstances – and I did not much mind. I had plenty of thoughts to occupy me.

We alighted from the train at past ten o'clock and, there being no cab in sight, took the walk back to our rooms together in equal silence. I set the hamper outside Mrs Hudson's door, then hurried up the stairs after Holmes.

After my last little altercation with the hatstand, I had moved it back into its usual place, just outside the door, on the landing. Why it had come into the room in the first place, I did not know – Holmes rearranges the room quite frequently when I am out, for his own, obscure reasons. But now he seized it by the post and manoeuvred it back inside, returning it to the exact spot where it had stood the night I tried to make believe it was a woman. He simply left it there, placing his hat upon it. I took off his coat and my hat and added them to the collection.

When I turned around, he had lit a cigarette, meaning that he did not intend to settle down to muse away the short remainder of the evening with his pipe. He watched me over invisible spectacles as I approached, waving the cigarette through the air in the most elegant fashion. He took a final draw and stubbed it, only a third smoked, on the mantle.

'That was truly an excellent idea of yours, Watson,' he exclaimed with relish. Then he was silent again, his eyes fixed upon me.

I glanced back at the hatstand, unable to shake a certain feeling that it was _watching_ us. It felt ridiculous: the two of us standing watching each other, like two young fools, in love for the first time and uncertain what to do with each other. I decided to sit, and took the nearest seat – the sofa.

Holmes began to pace, but slowly. His route took him behind me, and I resisted the urge to look, to follow him with my eyes. I stayed looking straight ahead, trying to think of a conversation opener. It wasn't that I felt uncomfortable with him, simply that I was uncertain of the reason for his silence during our journey, and needed him to explain before I could understand.

His hands fell on the back of my neck, making me jump. He slipped them round until the pair of them cupped my jaw, his fingertips touching at my chin. It was a strangely intimate touch and I closed my eyes to enjoy it. His fingers flexed against my jaw and when he spoke, his voice was low, pensive, almost melancholy.

'Just think, my dear Watson, if you had possessed the capacity to answer my query utilising only that object, we might never have happened upon this exquisite adventure.'

I smiled, 'Just as well it was so lacking then...' I stopped, hearing the secondary insinuation of his words.

'You doubt _my_ capacity? Do you mean to say that you believe _you_ would, with your new-found knowledge, now be able to demonstrate what I could not with that infernal item of furniture?'

His hands dropped to my shoulders.

'I cannot imagine any eventuality which would require me to give such a demonstration.'

I twisted in my chair to look at him.

'I can provide you with exactly such an eventuality at this very moment.'

'And what is that?' he asked, his eyebrow rising in disbelief.

I hesitated, uncertain as to whether this might be going too far. He smirked, as if sure I had been bluffing, and that decided me. 'Why, the eventuality that I _asked _you to show me.'

He huffed,

'That is unworthy of you Watson.' The mouth twitched again. 'But then again, you have asked and I am in a generous and capitulative mood today. I shall demonstrate as requested.'

He laced his fingers, stretching out his arms and cracking the knuckles. I watched him approach the hatstand. He circled it for a moment or two, appraising its qualities. Then he reached around it, arms full of coats and scarves, face buried in my own tweed cap. His eyes closed, his hands clutched at the fabric of my own, neglected topcoat and bunched it as if he could feel my ghost in the fabric. I had to admit, it was very good. The ardour with which he pushed tight against the contents of that stand was quite convincing. I found myself momentarily jealous of it, until I remembered myself and shook my head to clear the image. I have always said that Holmes is a true genius. Here, I thought, was proof of it.

He let go all of a sudden, stepped back and regarded me ruefully.

'My apologies, Watson, you were correct. It is not possible to bestow upon a hatstand that affection you might lavish upon a human to whom you are attached.'

'But Holmes, that looked so...'

'Looked? A mere act of gestures, my dear man, and a poor one, for it lacked the soul of truth. Yet...' He perked up suddenly, 'Yet it has distinct possibilities of its own.' The mischief in his voice was almost unbearable, but I could not fathom its source.

'Well, really, Holmes. The possibilities of a...a walking stick, or a scarf, I can see, but...' I blushed, he saw it – the mere imagining of such uses – the lack of innocence displayed – were too much for even our private ears in my opinion. Stifling a laugh, he beckoned me over. His voice was very low:

'Behave yourself, Watson.' He fiddled at my collar for a moment and I felt it loosen as he removed tie and stud. He ran a finger lightly down into the hollow of my neck and I shivered. 'You cannot see it?'

'No,' I replied.

'I admit, on its own merits, it falls short of the possibilities offered by other items in our rooms, but as an item with history, containing the prompters of memories... It holds endless fascination. Observe!' He stepped back, removed his jacket with a flourish and threw it upon the floor. I bent to pick it up – my natural reaction to the many things Holmes flings upon the floor. He stopped me, 'No, no. Observe.'

Leaning on the central pole of the hatstand, gripping it through my coat, he tugged on the laces of his boots and flung them after the jacket. Throwing his head back, rather more dramatically than the occasion warranted, he removed his own bow and collar, dismantled his cuffs, unfastened his shirt-front, shrugged his braces and let the shirt drop behind him. His gaze was already at his waistband, hands tugging out his undershirt. Furtive glances took in my reaction until I could not maintain my silence. I wanted to see him, he knew that from before, but so peremptory a display is not what a gentleman expects, at least, not in circumstances such as these.

'Holmes...' I said. He interrupted me with a violent 'Shh!' I glanced behind me – the blinds were drawn, but I ran to pull the curtains across to be sure. When I looked back, he was standing in his underwear, watching me, one hand still on the hatstand.

'What would you like to do with me, Watson?' he asked with a theatrical little flourish of his hand.

The question stopped me in my tracks, sending a fireball ricocheting through my torso and down into my pelvis. What would I like to do with Holmes? Everything... Everything.

He turned easily away from me, placing both hands on the coat before him, running them up it to the hooks on which it hung, and then on up, until he was gripping one of the hatstand's topmost horns in each hand. He stood there, not looking back, but with a slight tension in his posture that suggested his confidence was something of a bluff.

I thought back. Everything we had done so far, that is, everything that one might consider to be more involved than simple kissing, had been essentially for my gratification. It was I who had brought myself to climax in his bed; I who had allowed myself to become so worked up that I could not prevent myself storming from the room to do the self-same thing, up against the wall in my own room; I who had been brought to climax earlier today by Holmes' roving foot. He might, I thought, have joined me in that last, but if he had, it was not really through anything of my doing.

I wondered whether he had been consciously putting me off, tricking me and sedating me with the glow of sexual satisfaction, while hiding his own lack of enthusiasm. However, now he seemed to be giving me the opportunity to find out. I reached out a hand and placed it in the centre of his back. He took a deep breath, his ribs swelling either side of my hand on his spine. I hesitated, not wanting to misjudge the situation. He let go of the breath, tilted his head slightly to the side, and said firmly, quietly,

'Whatever you want, Watson.'

I closed my eyes to try to think. There were many things I wanted to do, but not necessarily right now, when Holmes was risking the trust he had in me on this gamble. I slid my hands around his chest, pressed myself against his back. He sagged a little, losing some height and increasing the tension in his arms. With my hands on his front and my chin on his shoulder, I could feel his heart pounding faster and faster. I paused there to recover myself: ridiculously, my body was racing ahead of me, and I closed my eyes, drawing long slow breaths. They didn't help much – every one savoured of him.

'Don't move,' I said, more to stop him worrying about what I was doing than to prevent him turning – at that moment I was sure movement was beyond him. I took a step back, collected myself and quickly divested myself of jacket, shirt, boots and trousers. I checked the lock on the door before I returned to him – there was no call to be careless, especially since it is not unknown for a client to burst through Mrs Hudson's protective guard and enter our rooms unannounced. At this time of night it was unlikely, but even so...

I yanked off my undershirt and took hold of the hem of his. I pulled it up, reaching round to undo the buttons at the neck, then hauling it up his arms. He let go of the hatstand just long enough to free himself, then resumed his grip as if it was the only thing keeping him upright, which I suspect it was.

The skin of his back was hot, and I felt my eyes closing again as I wrapped myself back around him, my breathing increasing in rate to match his. In all my, I am somewhat ashamed to say, extensive experience, I have never been intoxicated by another person in this way. If all I had been allowed to do was cling to him like this all night, I should have been almost content to do so. But I had permission for greater things.

I let my hands wander across his chest, strumming his ribs, rubbing roughly over each of his nipples in turn. His breath, when I did that, fairly shuddered out, so I repeated the action and felt him sink a little lower. When I looked up, I could see the strain in his forearms, muscles bunched, his knuckles white where his fingers wrapped around the horns. I considered asking him if he would like to take this to a more comfortable piece of furniture, but then realised that Holmes would certainly tell me if he wished for us to do that. I ran my hands up his arms, moulding my fingers around hard-bunched muscle, and running the tips over his death-grip fists.

I kissed his neck. He sighed a smile and pushed back against my lips.

I did not grow impatient, and neither, I think, did he; but we had been through this on the moor: we had proved that neither of us required the obvious stimuli of such encounters when it came to it. Now, I wanted to see what would happen if that facet was introduced. If I touched him, would he be off like a Chinese Firecracker? Would it be too much for both of us? If I were to slip inside him...

I undid a button or two; tucked my fingers under the fabric at his waist and pushed down. He gave a soft moan as I released him, and pushed what I am obliged, if only by infatuation, to call 'perfect buttocks' into my waiting hands. I stroked them as wonderful, new pleasures, and struggled to pull my hands away for long enough to remove the rest of my own clothes.

Then I pressed myself against him once more. Unclothed, it seemed I could feel every jot of that wiry strength, writhing against me as he failed to remain still and in place. I rested my chin back on his shoulder, cheek to cheek with him, and he rubbed against me:

'Whatever you want, my dear friend...'

What I wanted, more than anything now, was to slide into him, but I had nothing to hand to make my way easier, and sliding was the last word that would have described it. So I simply slid my length between those fever-hot buttocks and let my hand fall to his waiting erection.

If I had harboured any doubts regarding his ability, willingness or enthusiasm, they were smashed to pieces when I took him in my hand. It pulsed with the pressure of his blood beating through it, hotter than the skin I leaned against, hard as the walking cane that caught my knuckles as I thrust forward against him.

I stroked lightly and he growled, harder and he whined, scraped a nail across the moist head and he made a plosive gasp. I found a rhythm between my pelvis, his body and my left hand. My right roamed the rest of him, on his thigh for a moment, then brushing his nipple so he jerked into me, then running up over his spasming forearm. The pain from those arms, held so high, and with most of his weight hanging from them, had to be excruciating. I suspected he was using it to ground him, to prevent his dislocation from the logical world. I wondered why, since he has been so content to lose himself in the flights of fancy allowed by his drugs. Perhaps he wanted to be aware of me, and feared to lose that awareness; or maybe that was mere fantasy on my part.

I could feel my own common sense departing, feel all my interest and concentration converging on the one important thing in life, to achieve the climax one can feel building. I thrust against him harder, rubbing past the sphincter I so longed to breach, drawing back, changing angle, thrusting between his legs, assaulting his scrotum from behind while my fingers teased it from the front.

He seemed to be coming apart – damp hair clinging to his forehead, dry hair fluttering silkily in the air. His fingers gripped like vices, but his arms were shaking as though they were too weak to hold up those same hands. Finally he roared like a bull and his pelvis thrust away from me so strongly that I lost my balance and staggered forward, falling against him. His hands lost their grip on the hatstand and we fell against the coats. The hatstand could not take the weight, and crashed to the floor, dropping coats, scarves, hats which rolled away under the furniture. We fell with it, slowed by the billowing of Holme's greatcoat, and landed, miraculously painlessly, on our sides. My arms were still wrapped around him, and my whole body sought release. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the white gleam of his seed, dribbling down my coat. I pushed against him, he was too tight against me to reach my hand between. He grunted,

'W'son, le' me.'

He tried to turn, but his arms would do nothing. I managed to battle through the reddish haze filling my consciousness, and let go of him enough. He swallowed a few times, shook his head so that his hair whipped hither and thither. Then he spoke more coherently,

'My dear, dear Watson, my arms are good for nothing: come here.' His intention was clear. I hesitated for the merest second, before I shuffled up, letting my hands drift into his hair and rub gently at his scalp as he took me into his mouth , and with the barest few sweeps of his tongue and compression of his lips, brought me the release I craved.

As I surfaced, I was aware of him grimacing as the life came back to his arms, and the prickle of returning blood gave far worse discomfort than the spasms of his muscles while he had hung on. By the time I was ready to contemplate reality once more, it had passed.

He sighed, and lay back, beautiful, flushed and sheened with sweat. I wondered at him. Never once had he looked at me until we had fallen, never once had I felt that I might have misjudged his level of experience, yet he had, undoubtedly, been in control the whole time. I had done nothing he had not desired, nothing he had not deduced I would do. And I didn't care. To be so perfectly _known_ is a magnificent thing.

He raised his fingertips to his eyes and rubbed them, arched his spine and groaned.

'No doubt, my dear Watson, you would have recommended a bed, or at least the sofa or the floor, but I wished...' He smirked, then shot me an amused look and broke into a giggle that made me grin and look away like a shy schoolgirl. 'I wished to teach that hatstand a lesson.' I laughed with him and struggled to my feet, trying to right the hatstand, if only so that I could get past to go to his room without taking the long route close to the fireplace. It defeated me, and I went the long way, stealing the sheet from his bed, balling it up, and tossing it across the room to him, where he still sat on the floor. He shook it out, wrapped it around his shoulders and held one side aloft to indicate a Watson-sized space. Then he watched me as I took my own pipe from the table, and selected from the rack that pipe of his that indicates contentment. I filled them both, lit a spill from the fire, dropped into the space within the sheet, and handed his over.

He unpacked it, of course. The packing of one's pipe is so very individual, and I could not hope to get it right for him. Strands of tobacco littered the sheet, and I watched the flame playing at the end of the long spill as I waited for him. Then we lit our pipes, I extinguished the spill and waved it through the air to cool before dropping it into his boot, and we reclined against the fallen hatstand, shoulder to shoulder, pretending heavenly innocence in our clean, white sheet, but blowing clouds of smoke drawn from pipe-bowls glowing like the devil's own teacups.


	6. Breakfast and Other Feasts

My pipe went out long before Holmes' – I was too nervous to savour it, drawing hard and exhaling swiftly. Whatever calm I had acquired from my release was being swiftly eroded. I wanted him more than ever, yet I still had no idea where I stood with regard to his body. Could I touch him where and when I wanted? Did 'whatever you want' still stand?

Eventually, he finished his pipe, and he set it down on the nearest dining chair – just within reach of his long arm. He raised his arms above his head, stretched with cracking bones, and stood up, pulling the sheet away from me. He stood there, draped in white, his eyes drooping, and held out a hand.

'Come to bed with me, Watson.'

I took the proffered hand, using it to struggle to my feet, and he half-pushed me in the direction of his room. He kept the sheet for himself, I noticed, and took his pipe back to its rack and shut off the lamps before he joined me.

A few weeks earlier, I would have laughed scornfully if it had been suggested that I would soon be sharing a bed with Holmes, waiting for him to come and lie naked in my arms. I would not have believed it, because Sherlock Holmes, the dearest, most infuriating friend I have ever had, is not a man with whom one could possibly do that sort of thing. The knowledge that this ought to be the case, but wasn't, bothered me. On the other hand, my experiences so far with him – the ease with which I had brought him to arousal, to climax, suggested that there was a deep truth here.

'Holmes...' I hesitated. Now was almost certainly not the time for my question, but I wished to know; I hated the idea of a past that was a locked door – after all, Holmes knew far too much about my past, had probably gleaned a lot more from his observations of my behaviour in the bedroom.

'Yes, Watson,' he said, walking towards me holding a lamp, which he set on the bedside table.

'May I ask, or is it too private a thing...? What previous experience have you? You said you had kissed...' My legs swung as I sat on the edge of the bed. He stopped, but instead of sitting next to me, he folded himself down to the floor and took hold of my ankles, stopping them from moving. He kept his gaze fixed on my bare shins as he spoke.

'I have kissed, yes. A man with whom I shared tutorials at university, plied me with a great deal of wine in fulfilment of a bet, and took advantage of my incapacity. It went no further. I was aware of it and did not mind_ that_... but anything further was out of the question. I had work to do. Then a woman, a few years later – I needed information, knowledge. She was keen to continue, but I didn't have the time or the inclination.' He sighed dramatically. 'Then, since I know you will not let the subject drop until you have extracted every last occurrence, I will admit that I was, for a while and quite without any real desire to be so, a member of a group who... explored each other thoroughly. I was not a very good member. I came to it through two men of my acquaintance who were improbably kind to me when I was in great need of rescue from the tedium of existence.'

I looked down at the top of his head, felt his grip tighten on my ankles, saw the tension in the muscles of his shoulders, and guessed aloud,

'The seven percent solution?'

'At that time, closer to twenty, and other things besides. But they persuaded me to watch their games by way of distraction. I rarely joined in, and only in the most guarded way. They would assuage their desires in whatever way suited them. I observed – the sexual act features in many crimes, and data regarding such acts between men are not easy to come by. I took mental notes and learnt how things might be done, the result of various endeavours. How did you think I knew what to do with you this evening?'

'How _did_ you join in?' I could not help asking.

'They found me fascinating,' he said off-handedly, 'and from time to time would relax me with herbal medicaments or simply with time and gentle caresses, and then use their hands or mouths upon me. I suppose I allowed it because they did not expect anything in return and I was bored. But then, that situation was different. I did not love them.'

_Then you _do_ love _me_?_ I found myself thinking. Heavens, his experience was odd, but accounted for the strange confidence he had shown.

His thumbs rubbed my ankle bones, his fingers caressing the skin on the other side – an area which is particularly sensitive for me. I could feel my pulse rising, my mind trying to dive into the pleasure and leave the reality of my sated body behind.

'Holmes, stop!' I regretted my imperative tone at once – he shot back from me, hands raised.

'Watson? I...'

'No, no, Holmes. My apologies. I did not mean to sound so fierce. That is exquisite, but you're driving my mind where my body cannot hope to follow, not so soon. Not so soon, old man, surely you understand?'

It seemed he didn't, looking at me with some confusion. I supposed he had never been put in that position himself.

'Tomorrow. Gladly. More than gladly...' I watched him consider my compromise for a moment, then nod.

He rose, bringing the sheet with him, and I pushed back the blankets properly so that the sheet could be laid under them. Having attended to this little matter of housekeeping, I held the several layers aloft so that he could creep between, having every intention of laying myself in a position that suited me tonight. I was deadly tired, but happily so, and the prospect of resting my head against whatever portion of his anatomy he presented was welcome indeed.

He pulled on his nightshirt before he got in, but he did not lie down, and instead sat with his back against the angle between headboard and wall, fished around under the pillow, and brought out a ratty old shawl, which he draped around his shoulders.

* * *

'I wish to think,' he said lightly, and when I did not move, he beckoned me in. I could not help raising my eyebrows, but he rolled his eyes at me, indicated that I should use his legs as a bolster, his stomach as a pillow, so I did. I fell asleep listening to the intimate rumbles and gurgles of his digestion: a proof of life to make the lover's mind content. Sometimes, one gets that for which one has wished.

I was surprised, in the morning, to find him still beside me. He had slipped down during the night to lie flat, and had his back to me, but we still pressed against each other from head to toe. I heard the church bells ringing nine o'clock and stretched, thinking that although this was most pleasant, it would not do to be found in bed together, and Mrs Hudson would soon be knocking on the door. She and I have an understanding that Holmes eats so irregularly by nature, even outside the duration of a case, that it is our duty to ensure that he at least manages some breakfast most of the time. So she would soon be up to check on us – him particularly.

I stretched noisily, trying to wake him, and succeeded to a certain extent. He threw a vaguely waving arm back in my direction, under the sheets. It landed on my thigh with a hard slap. I winced.

'Time, Watson?' he asked groggily.

'Just gone nine,' I murmured, trying to keep my voice inoffensively soft. In truth, with the joy of last night just beginning to seep back into my awareness, I would happily have burst into song. However, I could imagine the reception that would get, and I did not like the thought. He rolled towards me, crushing my side, not unpleasantly, and conducted his own lacklustre stretch. His eyes were half closed, his hair all over the place. He tried to focus on me, but failed, and instead shuffled himself about until he was lying on his side, facing me, and tried to reach over me for something on the bedside table.

'What do you want?' I asked, as he narrowly avoided stabbing me in the eye.

'Cigarette,' he mumbled. I reached awkwardly with my right arm, lit the cigarette myself and passed it to him. As he smoked it, occasionally passing it to me for a draw, he began to wake, and as he puffed out his last mouthful of smoke and stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, he pushed off me, yawned, and stretched more fully. He climbed over me, stepped into his slippers, pulled on his frightful grey dressing gown and padded off into the living room. I looked about for something to wear, not wishing to go wandering about the place in the nude. His spare nightshirt struck me as ideal, being very similar to my own, and unlikely to be recognised as his if Mrs Hudson _were_ to come bustling in.

In the living room, the hatstand still lay wretchedly on the floor, like a slain beast – though Holmes would call that an altogether too fanciful description. He was sitting in his chair, or rather, lying with his lower back supported by the seat and his shoulders resting on the backrest. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped upon his belly, and if he were a more religious man I might have said he was indulging in a few morning prayers. As it was, I saw no need to leave him be, and prodded his ankles with a bare foot.

He opened one eye and regarded me with a neutral expression that turned slowly into a small smile he seemed anxious to hide. I smiled back to show, if it were required, that it was all right.

'Breakfast?' I asked. He nodded and closed his eyes again. I felt a twinge of the annoyance I associate almost entirely with Holmes – it is a comforting annoyance, rarely actually a true irritation. He muttered,

'Do stop rolling your eyes, Watson. I'm thinking.'

'You had half the night to think,' I rejoined, rather harshly. His eyebrow twitched and I sighed. There was, after all, a lot to think about.

I left him there and after a second's thought, went to my room to don my own clothes, before calling Mrs Hudson for a spot of something. While we waited for her to arrive, I fought the hatstand back into its proper alignment and rehung it with its scattered clothes. I found that draping the coats back around it now felt much more sensual than it had any right to. My coat was still stained with Holmes' semen, but for the time being, I simply covered it with his, and resolved to take a cloth to it later. The evidence was all but gone by the time our breakfast arrived.

Mrs Hudson bore a tray which warmed my heart – toast and butter, strawberry preserve, a pair of boiled eggs. She moved the items onto the table and went to leave. Holmes stopped her with a hand on the arm.

'Mrs Hudson!' he barked happily, 'Watson and I will be carrying out the most delicate and uncertain of experiments today. It would be far better if we were not disturbed, even by you. Please do not bother to serve luncheon.'

I sighed inwardly, desperately trying not to mentally berate Holmes for being so cavalier with my dining requirements.

'But what about the breakfast things, Mr Holmes?' asked our bewildered landlady.

'They will not suffer unduly for being on our table for a few hours. Good day, Mrs Hudson!' he ushered her out of the door, turning the key in the lock behind her. I could hear her frustrated tutting as she made her way back downstairs.

I hurried to the table, anxious to tuck in before Holmes got it into his head that I could do without my breakfast as well. He took his chair opposite me, and attacked his egg with such vigour that the top of it landed some way from his eggcup. He plucked it from the cloth and deposited it on his plate, then dug the remainder from its shell, eating the whole thing in barely more than two mouthfuls. I watched as he reached for a slice of toast, swept butter from the dish in a long gouge, wiping it across the bread in one swirling motion and positively hurled his strawberry preserve from the spoon. The whole thing was wolfed down in an instant, and he reached for his tea with equal rapidity.

I, meanwhile, had merely poured myself a cup of tea and removed the top of my egg. I noticed his repeated glances in my direction, and made a deduction of my own:

'Holmes, whatever plans you have for me that you are so eager to execute, I shall be happy to hear; but no matter how fast you consume your own breakfast, I am afraid that I intend to savour mine, and you will be obliged to wait. So why not enjoy your tea in full measure, my dear man, and let me eat my egg without this pervasive sense of urgency. I assure you, my attention and my appreciation of whatever it is you have in mind will be all the better for my stomach being satisfied.'

'And then we must wait the extra time while you digest, no doubt,' he muttered, but not irritably. He did slow down, sipping his tea and watching me over the rim of his cup.

Finishing my breakfast at the speed to which my stomach was accustomed now, of course, became impossible. I was aware of him watching, aware that my protests were entirely hollow, and that I desperately wanted to know what that incredible mind of his was planning. However, I forced myself to take my time, to establish at least a little independence at the beginning of whatever the day might bring.

As I took up my teacup and mirrored him, my mind began to turn uncontrollably on the question of what he was thinking of doing. It conjured me many possibilities, until it was all I could to to swallow. Would he take hold of me the moment I had finished, to kiss me, embrace me, undress me, learn my body a little better? Would he push me up against the wall, or throw me on the bed and enter me with all haste, or would he desire me to do that to him? Or would he take his time? Would this be a day for slow experimentation, for discovering how best to please each other? Or would it be something utterly unexpected?

I tipped the cup back and let the last few drops of cool, creamy liquid fall onto my tongue. Then placed it in its saucer and sat back in my chair, my hands clasped on my belly, waiting for him.

He rested his own, long empty cup back on the table, pressed on the tablecloth with his hands, and thus levered himself out of his chair and stood, stretching, before he moved to his armchair and beckoned me to follow him in silence.

I obeyed his gestures, taking my seat opposite him, and waited for him to speak, to act, to do anything at all. But he did not. I waited and watched him, his eyes were calm, and kinder than usual, though I have often seen them kind like that when I catch him looking at me unguardedly. He settled down further into his chair, his hands rising to nestle, clasped, against his chin. I let my eyes leave him for a moment, to glance around the room, wondering how long this silent contemplation would last, but a gentle tut brought my eyes snapping back to him, and with the slightest movement of his eyebrows, he indicated that I should keep my eyes on him.

I shifted my leg to make myself more comfortable, and let my normal concerns leave me. Today, of all days, there was as much time as we wanted. Mrs Hudson would keep us undisturbed; there was nowhere to be, nothing pressing to which I should attend; and if Holmes wanted to stare at me, I was not in such an aroused condition that I particularly minded, especially since I was happy to let my breakfast settle for a while.

I suppose it was a meditation. At least, I soon slipped into a state of quite extraordinary relaxation, my eyes fixed on his, and perhaps into a sort of trance, for I began to see something I considered beyond the normal. I say 'see', but it was more a sense of a different nature. As I gazed into his pupils, it seemed to me that I could hear the workings of his mind. Not the mechanical, rapid whirring that I knew must drive that incredible intellect; but the overbearing waves of his most reasoned thoughts. Perhaps I was simply reading the miniscule twitches of his facial muscles, which I know so well that when he chooses to make a full expression, I could divine his thoughts with ease. In this silent communion, I think I must simply have picked up on the smaller movements of his face, and not been aware of it. Nevertheless, it quite shook me at the time.

_Watson, my dear Watson. There you are, _he seemed to say, wordlessly. _I wonder how long you will let me sit here in silence. Can you divine what I am saying? Oh, I see you can. Such a tiny nod from one who usually expresses himself so freely... Later today, I have things I wish to try with you. But for now, I want to know if I can give you pleasure without a single word, touch or gesture. _

At least, that was the gist of it. I knew his meaning, though. I doubted his ability, but I watched him.

His breathing quickened slightly, his eyes becoming more hooded, his mouth falling a little open.

_Watson, I am imagining you touching me. Do you know how few people have ever touched me? No-one has ever touched me as I wish you to touch me. You may begin at my head, at my neck. Remember how you pressed your lips against my spine last night? That was very pleasant. You can do that again. And your fingers on my ribs, that was also quite delightful... _

Perhaps it was that he mirrored the movements he had made last night as I had touched him. Or perhaps I was just wishing that my actions had been so unforgettable, so desirable, that he would wish them repeated. However it was, his eyebrow raising itself told me that he had noted the increase in my own breathing rate. A tiny quirk of the lips showed that my nervous swallowing had not passed unnoticed, and was acceptable to him.

_...But I should also like to feel your hands moving between my legs again. Such a sure touch, Doctor, makes one feel so safe. It is so easy to let oneself go when those hands are there to do the catching. And I will repay the favour. I know you trust me. You have always trusted me. And you trust me now to map out the progress of our day for you, though I know your physical desires encourage you to rush at the thing. Well, well, Watson... I wonder if I can push you too far? I wonder if you will let me...? Give me your hand._

He had not said it out loud, but some subconsciously noticed movement of his hand must have informed me of his intentions, for I had leant forward and my own hand was outstretched towards him before his had left his lap.

He closed his eyes and nodded. Our fingers met and almost crawled over each other in their hurry to be palm to palm. He wrapped his fingers about mine and I returned his grip as he opened his eyes and returned to watching me.

The pressure of his fingers was steady, almost unchanging, save for the involuntary tics to which we are all prey when asked to keep still. Yet as time passed, the sensation in my hand grew, an idea of his touch which spread through me, until my loins burnt with it, my feet tingled, and sweat beaded on my forehead as I struggled not to grab him and make this stop. I shifted in my seat, but that only make the pressure worse. Now his eyes were in constant motion, flicking back and forth between my face, my groin, and our joined hands, each time they met my own eyes, his mouth twitched in that little, satisfied smirk once more, making my stomach jump with anticipation and lust.

I longed to kiss him, to take that smile for my own. But I had made a vow, of sorts, to myself, and I would not break it. I would not...

Then he made a little noise. The sort of noise one might make if one were giving oneself pleasure and the door to the next occupied room were very thin. It was the gentlest of moans, and it signalled the re-closing of Holmes' eyes, accompanied with a little toss back of the head which made his neck seem to stretch into an expanse of flesh so tempting that it was all I could do to maintain my seat. His second moan, a little louder this time, broke me.

I stood suddenly, pulling my hand away and making him start in his chair; and I crossed to the window, taking my eyes from him fully. I leaned both my hands on the sill, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to banish the desire to rip off both our clothes and plunge myself into him with no preamble whatsoever. Instead I ground out, in a voice cracking with effort,

'Have pity on me, Holmes!'

'Ah!' He stayed where he was and I could hear his smile. 'Would you say your breakfast has gone down yet?' he asked. I shook myself.

'That was to let me digest?'

'Partially. Has it sufficed?'

'I suppose so.' I felt somewhat hard-done-by, although it had undoubtedly been a good idea. I heard him getting up, and sighed as his hand fell on my shoulder. My head tipped towards it unthinkingly and he turned me round and pressed his lips to mine, ignoring the fact that we were close to the window and probably visible from the street if anyone were looking straight in. I fumbled for the blind, but my mind was elsewhere, quite truly. He had already worked me so skilfully that my hands went to the buttons of his nightshirt without my bidding, undoing the front to his waist and slipping around his middle while my parted lips left his and roamed across his face, skimming his cheeks, sliding down the length of that remarkable nose, swinging around then to press inside the helix of his ear. Suddenly that became irresistible, and I felt the deep rumble in his chest vibrate through me as I gave up on all sense of propriety, stuck out my tongue and licked, then wrapped my lips around it – his ears have always fascinated me. The faint bitter tang of wax seemed sweet as honey, but I was propped up on my tip-toes, so could not linger there as long as I would have liked.

His hands were on my waist, and he pulled me closer, slipping his arms tighter and tighter around me, until I was in a perfect bear-hug, engulfed by Holmes, his hair in my nostrils, his arousal evident against my front. Then he stopped, frozen for a second, and seemed to be waiting for something.

'What?' I asked breathlessly.

'Lestrade,' he muttered with a sneer, pulling back slightly, so I could see his gaze directed out of the window.

'Mrs Hudson will stop...' I said, but I heard the pounding steps on the stairs at the same moment as he.

I rushed to help him rebutton his front, adrenaline making my vision blur and my fingers fumble. Then I backed away, trying to choose where best to sit – aware that if I remained standing, the front of my trousers would be perfectly indecent. Holmes had already taken his seat, a scowl on his face, his dressing gown tied as a fortification about his nether regions. A second later, Lestrade was banging on the door, Mrs Hudson's admonitory tones clearly audible as she tried to explain that we were otherwise engaged.

It occurred to me that Holmes had taken it for granted that Lestrade would gain entry, but that one of us, and it seemed to be falling to me, would have to get up to unlock the door that Holmes had so carefully secured.

I got up, painfully, wondering whether this was simply timely punishment for our sins, or whether it was just sheer bloody-mindedness on Lestrade's part. I unlocked the door, and managed to conceal my condition tolerably well as I returned to my seat.

'Come in, Lestrade,' Holmes said with a dangerous crackle in his voice. 'I am sure Mrs Hudson, admirable as she is, has informed you that your visit is most inconvenient and not at all welcome.'

'Oh, I did indeed, Mr Holmes,' replied our gracious landlady, 'but I'm afraid the inspector would not listen...'

'There're children involved, Mr Holmes. I wouldn't ask, not when you're busy, but I fear for their lives.' He took a slightly deeper breath and his nose twitched. He threw a searching glance in my direction, and I looked away, trying to smell the room past the dulling cover of familiarity. Perhaps the scent of two extremely aroused males was enough to be noted over the general air of toast and pipe tobacco, maybe not, but I could have buried my face in my hands as Holmes rose to his feet and made his way towards the inspector, his dressing gown front arcing out, leaving no doubt what was going on beneath.

If Lestrade saw, he was the soul of discretion. His eyes fixed on Holmes' face, he licked his lips a little nervously and took a deep breath.

'They were taken from the family home. We have the descriptions, we think we know who took them, and we know why, it's the 'where' that's flummoxing us.' He handed some papers over to Holmes, who read rapidly, then sighed.

'They are on the ten-fifteen to Nottingham, and if you wire ahead, you can have a police escort ready for them when they alight. But they should look for a man, not the woman this suggests at first sight, and one of the children will be re-dressed to resemble the opposite sex. I'm afraid from this I cannot possibly tell you in which direction. Now, is there anything else you need to know, Lestrade? We are most abominably busy today.'

'I see,' Lestrade seemed a little shocked, possibly by the ease with which Holmes had given him the solution, possibly by the fact that Holmes chose to give his pelvis a gentle thrust as if to indicate the exact nature of our employment this morning.

'No, gentlemen... uh, thank-you, Mr Holmes. Your input is most invaluable. I'll leave you to it... I'll show myself out. A good morning to you.' He stopped, looked at me, glanced back at Holmes, took another breath as if thinking to say something; then a little shake of the head and he was leaving. He stopped at the door without turning back.

'Do not omit to lock it behind me.'

As he left, Holmes turned to me, though his thoughts were clearly still with Lestrade.

'A more remarkable man that I often give him credit for being.'

'He already knew,' I pointed out, certain now that Lestrade and Holmes had indeed shared that information at the start of the whole business with Milverton.

'I run him down too often. He is a sharp tool in the police inventory.'

'Well, really, Holmes, he could hardly fail to notice today – your condition is all too evident, and we have both been...'

'You, my friend have turned the most charming shade of pink,' he cut me off.

'And why did you open the blinds if this is what you planned?' I retaliated, moving to lock the door and pull the blinds back down, since I had failed in that endeavour the first time.

'Because if I had not, Mrs Hudson would have performed that office all the same, and the less time she spent hovering around in here, the better.'

'Do you think she noticed?' I asked in horror, suddenly realising that she had been in the doorway of the room, and as a once-married woman, would not be unable to put two and two together.

'It is entirely probable, but given the number of things for which she reprimands me on a monthly basis, I imagine this would fall rather low on her list of concerns.' He reached out to touch a long finger to my moustache, smoothing an errant hair. I shivered, but the idea of Mrs Hudson ranking her gripes with us in order of importance was delightful, and I grinned. He took hold of my shoulders, held me at arms length, let his gaze drift slowly down my body until he smiled wickedly to himself and his fingers gripped more tightly, kneading firmly at the tense muscles in my upper arms,

'Tut, tut, Watson; can I really play you so easily?'

He looked so abominably pleased with himself, so self-assured in my presence, that it seemed to add another inch or to to his height – a difference I could well do without, so my first thought was to persuade him to sit, that I might feel more equal with him.

'Yes, you can, which you know very well. But may we sit, my dear fellow? My leg...'

'Tish! Your leg indeed! A pale excuse my friend, you are merely vexed at having to gaze upwards at me all the time, you would prefer me to sit with you so that my height does not disadvantage you when you are attempting to appear the very pinnacle of male desirability.'

I blushed, much to my annoyance, and he went on, in that low, rapid-fire speech with which he expresses himself when what he says is very obvious to him, but requires to be said for form's sake. 'And there really is no need. Watson, you are the only diversion of this nature in my collection and I assure you, you are in-fin-itely–' he drew out the word in stark contrast to those around it, '–desirable to me, at your usual height, to which you will recall, I am well-accustomed.'

'Nevertheless,' I said, clinging tightly to my first excuse. He rolled his eyes at me and sat, dragging me down after him. I fell against him, and he turned, pinning me to the sofa, and wrapping himself about me, pressing his lips to mine and allowing me the not altogether unpleasant sensation of being totally overwhelmed by him.

His dressing gown fell around us, and under its cover, I used my knees to push the skirts of his nightshirt up towards his waist. Once the hem was within reach, I tugged it up further, slid my fingers around his waist under it, and pressed one hand into the warmth between his legs. He grunted in surprise and breathed deeply, incidentally drawing a ticklish gust of air past the sensitive skin on my neck, making me grip more tightly. He pushed back, his breathing so rapid now that I could see the frantic rush of it in his eyes as he stared down, wiping his brow with the hand that was not supporting him. He blinked slowly – it looked like a last ditch attempt to regain control, but if it was, it failed.

I pressed one finger against his perineum, watching the astonishing effect it had on him. It was like watching him drugged again, but without the medical fear coursing through me. Freeing my other hand, I pulled loose my tie and started work on the buttons of my jacket and waistcoat, while he set his attentions upon my shirt.

'Why must we wear so many blasted clothes?' he asked, fingers spidering at my cufflinks.

'I thought it was your intention to discover exactly,' I paused to take a much-needed breath as his thumb ruffled across the veins on the inside of my wrist, '...exactly how far you could take me without removing any of my clothes at all?'

'It was,' he muttered distractedly, 'I have changed my mind.'

I almost laughed. Perhaps it would have been fairer to say that his mind had changed its location, for I was certain that the usual flow of blood to his mighty brain had been sorely reduced. However, his lips upon my chest cut off my laughter, the sensation too intense to admit of any other emotion. He balanced himself enough to pull me towards him, off the sofa, while he dragged all my upper garments from me in one motion, catching me a slight fabric burn on my wrist as he did so, which I barely noticed, and certainly did not begrudge him.

Then he stopped, and looked me in the eye, although it was a brief moment that he held my gaze – his eyes were too busy, too full of life to merely rest on mine for any length of time. He seemed to be searching the air for solutions to some great problem, so I decided to take matters into my own hands for a minute.

Reaching out for him with my free hand, I stroked across his lips. He sighed and allowed me to run them deeper, rattling my nails against his teeth, before boldly pushing in a little way beyond. His eyes narrowed, then he gave one of those little facial shrugs of his that mean he is allowing you your way for now, however incomprehensible. His tongue stroked my fingers and it was hot and soft and strong – so delightful that I almost stayed there, playing with that sensation, but my plans were more direct.

I stole back my wet fingers, just as he seemed to be getting to enjoy it, and reaching down, pressed past the sphincter from which I had so carefully held back the night before.

His gasp was vocalised this time – a loud 'gah!' of surprise as he tightened painfully around my finger. I held still and silently asked him whether this was acceptable. He gave me a smug grin and informed me that if I were to stop now, he would be obliged to send for a policeman. That was threat enough – despite the length of time for which I have known Holmes, the potential in him for surprising me would still admit of him actually carrying out his threat, especially since I now knew for a fact that we had what might almost be taken as a 'tame' policeman in the form of Lestrade. Besides, I really had no intention of stopping unless he seemed seriously to object, so I waited for him to relax a little, then continued to press in.

Holmes was now in a state of great agitation. I was almost certain that he had never done _this_ before; his account of his previous experience did not seem to allow for it. However, he was not in a patient mood, and pushed himself onto my fingers, a frown on his face, and my name repeatedly upon his lips – a detail I had not looked for, but found strangely thrilling.

After a while, he shook himself and crawled off me.

'Sit up, Watson,' he said between rough breaths. I did so, and he stood shakily, grabbed hold of my unbuttoned trousers and I helped to wriggle out of them, before he grabbed my knees and pulled me to the edge of the sofa, so that I reclined against the back in an extraordinarily uncomfortable position. I let him do it, however, I could not bring myself to stop him, not even when he reached for the butter dish from the breakfast table, and used a great scraping of it in a manner of which I felt sure Mrs Hudson would not approve. He sat down upon me and I felt myself sliding into him. The idea of it was intoxicating and utterly removed all sensation of discomfort from my mind. He moved on me and his head fell back, giving him an air of wantonness I usually associate with his periods of boredom. My back started to protest, despite the liberal painkiller my own brain seemed to be doling out, and I grabbed his waist, holding myself firmly inside him, and using all the strength I had, sat up, twisted us round and let him slip to the floor, his head landing on a cushion which had already fallen there.

I saw the spark in his eye that rebelled against me taking charge and I tutted at him.

'Holmes, if you want to be in charge, recall your knowledge of anatomy, and do not leave me in such an untenable position...'

He growled at me, but his eyes were gentle, and he seemed resigned to this position, or rather, seemed to enjoy it more, unsurprisingly, since I now had the opportunity to change my angle and make it better for him. Apart from that, I could now move without hindrance, and I pummelled into him, not bothering to be too gentle, for I knew he would not appreciate it. As I thrust hard, he reached a hand up to clutch my scapular, and stuttered out,

'Watson, m-my dear man...You clearly...clearly know me f...far too well...' His fingernails dug in sharply where he clutched, and I noticed his other hand had reached out and wrapped around the leg of the sofa and now gripped with white knuckles.

I did not care. My speed increased, I was barely aware of anything now, but him, his body, the point at which our bodies met, the warmth, and the sight of his lips moving in what for a moment I assumed was his litany of 'Watsons', but turned out to be him keeping count of the number of thrusts I took to reach climax.

I got to my knees, grabbed his leg, dragged it up under my arm, stretched him wider, thrust more deeply, knowing that I shouldn't, that I should take care, that he was new to this, that I would cause damage... But also that he would not forgive me if I was gentle, that this was Holmes at his rawest, this was me at my most animal, that in spirit I was once again the soldier, and he was the daredevil who defied all of humanity and refused to conform when he chose not to. Just now, we both chose not to conform, and I did not care that he yelled as I drove into him and felt him contract sharply around me, nor that he continued to bellow as I ignored his hand slapping my thigh and continued my movements until the tight caress brought me to completion and I juddered against him, gripping his legs painfully hard.

When I let go and slipped out of him, he sighed and then grimaced, his face screwing up in pain.

'I've hurt you old man, I'm sorry,' I tried, but he waved a dismissive hand at me,

'Don't be ridiculous, Watson. That was magnificent. I just require a moment to learn to ignore the slight discomfort.'

I took him at his word, and chose to distract him.

'How many?'

'Hmm?' He looked confused for a second, then understood, 'Oh, I'm afraid I lost count rather towards the end. Over a hundred. I think. I could be wrong.'

If it was over a hundred, I was impressed with my own stamina – I would not have said I could last out so long with Holmes as my partner.

'You'll have to try not to lose count next time.'

He smirked, 'Watson, if you intend to impale me with such enthusiasm every time we embark upon something like this, there is little chance of me being able to hold myself together enough to do anything of the kind.' He pulled me back to him and kissed my forehead. 'A little soothing balm from your medical kit would not go amiss once you are fully recovered,' he said. A pang of remorse hit me and I went to get up to fetch a jar, but he grasped my forearm: 'When you are recovered, I said. You may as well let your heart-rate settle before you make it do anything else.'

However, at that moment, there was a ferocious knocking upon the door, which eliminated all hopes of my heart-rate returning to normal with any rapidity. Lestrade's voice lanced through the wood of the door and had us both on our feet in a matter of seconds.

'Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes! My apologies, but you must let me in!'

As Holmes stood, his nightshirt fell from his waist to cover him decently, but my clothes had been scattered about the place. Looking back, I should simply have run to Holmes' bedroom and shut the door, but the act of love is known to addle the brain, temporarily... At least, that is my excuse for the fact that instead of doing the sensible thing, I ran around to gather up my clothing in a frenzy, before throwing myself into the shadow of the one piece of furniture that would fully hide me from the area near the door: the hatstand.


	7. Matching Posteriors

Holmes pulled open the door, his face like thunder.

'What species of incompetence am I to rectify this time, Inspector? This is quite damnably inconvenient.'

'Damnit Mr Holmes! We need your brain! Your recreational activities must wait.'

Holmes whirled away from him, towards his bedroom, and I prayed that Lestrade would not follow him enough to catch sight of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Holmes throwing clothing about the room, searching for a clean collar. His door slammed shut as he started to change, and Lestrade, hands in his pockets, began to wander around the room, looking at books and ornaments in the way people do when they are left on their own in someone else's abode.

In a minute or two, Holmes opened his door, emerging fully dressed and with his dressing gown over his arm. To my horror, he tossed it to me, where I crouched, and said,

'Go and put on some clothes, Watson. I shall need your assistance.

As I struggled into the gown and stepped into the open, so red-faced that I imagined my eyebrows were in imminent danger of catching fire, Holmes gave me a quick nod, then turned his attention to Lestrade.

'Details, Lestrade!' he snapped. I did not hear the response, since I had already escaped up the stairs to my room. I dressed myself with the rapidity only a summons from Holmes can get out of me these days, and ran back down the stairs, theorising as I went that whatever eyebrow-raising I should have to face from Lestrade, it was as well to get it over with quickly.

However, Lestrade was in no position to give me more than a brief glance as I re-entered the room; Holmes was berating him from a few yards away, his hands thrown up in despair,

'If the police are so incompetent as to lose the villains I have handed to them on a platter, I see no reason why I should dig them out of their little pit a second time.'

'Mr Holmes, I will happily admit your pre-eminence, but for pity's sake, the second child...'

'Yes... Very well.' Holmes took his coat from the hatstand, uncovering the damning evidence. I shuffled in front of it, reaching around to take up my other overcoat – less suited to the weather, but also less unfortunately stained. I drew it on and passed Holmes his hat. He gestured Lestrade out of the door and followed him quickly, calling, 'Come, Watson!'

I followed, deciding that Mrs Hudson would have to take her chances with the condition of our rooms, and no more than four hours later, found myself at the other end of an adventure I shall attempt to write up when I have more time to devote to it.

The pity of it was that Holmes thought his involvement unnecessary, by reason of the solution being clear to him from the moment we reached the station, whereas, from my viewpoint, it was clear that the clues were insufficient for even the agile mind of Inspector Lestrade. I felt pride in my friend's remarkable abilities swell, even as my frustration with his lack of comprehension at the police failure peaked.

The case, as it happened, turned largely on the presence of a lady I supposed to be well into her middle age, although her smooth skin and youthful carriage would have let her pass for younger with little effort. Holmes declared her innocent of all misdoing in relation to the case, but her evidence and subsequently revealed care for the recovered child – sent off with a nurse to have various small injuries seen to – gave her an importance, which we chose to repay – that is, I suggested it, and Holmes did not refuse – by inviting her to take tea with us in the station hotel while we awaited our train.

I took my seat next to Mrs Deynforth, and once we had been served and a respectable time had passed, drew her into easy conversation, while Holmes sat across from us, and set his focus elsewhere. His inattention was almost rude, but I decided he had enough on his mind to excuse him. I dared to ask our companion a little about her circumstances, having caught a little complexity from some of her remarks. She smiled indulgently, and obliged me with a little information.

'I was widowed six years ago, Doctor. Now I give music lessons to support myself.'

Now, I admire a woman who does not fall back on her relatives the moment disaster strikes.

'Really? Which instrument?' I asked. I heard an almost inaudible grunt from Holmes' direction, but ignored it.

'Piano, flute, voice and violin,' she replied.

'A good variety,' I noted.

'My father was musical.'

'Holmes here plays the violin,' I said, directing my gaze at him to try and draw him into the conversation. He glanced up, but said nothing. His expression was utterly unreadable.

'And I'm sure he plays it beautifully – those hands, that grace of movement.' She looked down suddenly, possibly aware that she had been a little too effusive for a near stranger. However, I felt a sense of warmth spreading through me. Praise of Holmes was a sure way to gain my approval.

'Quite beautifully,' I agreed, and heard that little grunt again, though this time a little more contented. Suddenly he stood, gazing out of the window, and listening intently. He whirled around, seizing his hat and passing me mine.

'Our train, Watson! You will excuse us, I am sure, madam.' He started out of the door, without waiting to discover whether or not she would indeed excuse us. I handed her my card,

'If you are ever in London and in need of assistance, or simply a friendly face, please, do not hesitate to call on us,' I said, taking her proffered hand and giving her an apologetic bow before I hurried after Holmes.

He was waiting for me, one foot on the step of the carriage, hanging from the door by one hand. He allowed me to pass him, resting his hand upon my shoulder and pressing me forwards.

Once we were settled, knee to knee across a compartment, he glanced up at me, and remarked,

'Had your head turned, Watson?'

I looked at him sharply. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'An attractive woman.'

'I suppose so.' I was annoyed by his observation. I had not thought about it. I had found her interesting, charming perhaps. Her admiration for Holmes was bound to endear her to me, but that was completely different to the level of interest Holmes was suggesting. She was handsome, not truly beautiful, but certainly pleasant to look at, and well-groomed – just the right amount of concern about her appearance: wishing to look attractive, but not aggressively so. This was all beside the point however. I could not contemplate putting her in direct comparison with Holmes. He was mine, and that was all I required.

'Hmm,' he said, sounding disbelieving.

'You're imagining things, old man,' I said, wondering as I said it, to what extent Holmes was capable of feeling jealousy. During my previous marriage, he had turned up at my door to take me away, and even back then, there had been something proprietorial about it – something of the _droit de seigneur_ in the way he assumed I would come with him, and in the dismissive way he had treated my wife.

'Am I?' He sounded bored, apathetic. It riled me.

'Yes,' I snapped. Then I softened, and leaned back. I had no desire to quarrel with him over a silly fantasy of his.

I let him be, all the way home. He was still brooding as we entered Baker Street, and once we had made it upstairs, he threw himself into his chair in a manner I might have called 'morose'. I walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder.

'You're not disappointed about the case, are you?'

'Disappointed? No. Irritated.' He rolled the 'r' and popped the 't's snappishly. 'Irritated to the highest degree. If the police had the slightest idea of the trouble they cause... If they had simply called on me earlier, this whole journey would have been rendered unnecessary...'

I squeezed his shoulder consolingly. 'Well, they did _try_, you know. You were otherwise engaged.'

'No, no, no. Before that. This case appears to have been beyond them from the start.'

'Well I'm damned glad they didn't. We might never have had time to do what we did then.'

'Mm.' His response was too curt, too studiedly disinterested. I divined the possible cause, unlikely as I might previously have thought it.

'You don't seriously think I'm about to leave you for that woman, do you?'

'Of course not,' he said, but I knew him too well to entirely believe him.

'You're jealous!' I said, and I'm afraid I may have sounded a little too gleeful at the idea that he was capable of being so concerned about my faithfulness.

'What utter nonsense.' He still did not look at me, and I felt I was walking a fine line, so I did not force myself into his line of vision, but sat down at my desk and took up my pen to commence the recording of the day's publishable events.

There was silence for a few seconds while I deliberated over a title and dipped my pen. As I began to write, he spoke.

'Must you do that now?'

'Not if it irritates you. Would you rather I left you alone for a while?'

'No.' He sighed and steepled his fingers in front of his lips. 'No. Talk to me, Watson, I want to hear your voice.'

'What shall I talk about?'

'Oh, whatever you like. It is the tone of your voice I wish to hear. Come, sit where I can see you.' I felt a little ashamed of my earlier gloating, so I acquiesced to his request and sank into my chair, whence I poured forth a stream of inane prattle for the next ten or fifteen minutes. All the time, Holmes sat there with his eyes closed. After a while, his hand began to move, vague little motions near to his chin, becoming more and more pronounced, until I realised that he was conducting some unheard tune. I stopped speaking and at once his eyes flicked open. His eyes fixed on me and I felt that I had interrupted him in the middle of some great symphony.

'What were you conducting, Holmes?'

'Your voice, my dear man. It is quite melodic when you are rabbiting away... and most soothing.'

It was rather difficult to give any sort of reply to that statement, so I just nodded helplessly. He took pity on me.

'You were quite correct, in fact, Doctor,' he said, his eyes flashing. 'I was jealous. It is an emotion I have come to expect when you and I are out in company. You are becoming far too perceptive.'

I nodded my thanks to him, then shrugged.

'As I said, it was unnecessary.' He blinked slowly and waved dismissively at me.

'No, it was not, but since you are, as yet, unaware of the true nature of that...diversion, I shall also endeavour to ignore it for the time being.'

I knew he was talking rot, so I ignored it in turn and stretched out a foot to touch his.

'Good,' I said. His head tilted down, he looked up at me through his lashes and I swallowed. How Holmes could make one look send me spiralling into lust was a mystery, but one I was content to spend many hours researching.

'What are your views on a reversal of our roles from this morning?' he asked casually. I felt my heart begin to race,

'You mean...?'

'I feel that at present I have insufficient information to properly categorise my opinions on which is the better, or the more pleasurable or...'

'Of course,' I said hoarsely. 'Insufficient information...I don't suppose you actually mean to fill that need immediately do you?'

He slid down in his chair so that his foot could writhe around mine more easily.

'If you are amenable. Otherwise I shall lie awake all night considering the issue.'

'Lock the door then,' I said. He looked up then, an expression I could not quite read flitting across his face. I thought it might be relief. Then he sprang to his feet and sped to the door, turning the key in the lock, then racing to the windows to pull the curtains over the blinds. I sat, stunned in my chair. I had always known that Sherlock Holmes did not do things by halves: either he was working so hard that the basic necessities of living could not be given time in the day, or he was sunk so low in boredom that the very idea of work seemed a disgusting imposition on his lethargy. So now, I was experiencing him in the full flight of his enthusiasm, and if I was truly honest with myself, the idea of that enthusiasm driving him to bed me several times in a day was one with which I could easily be reconciled.

My blood already pumped faster, simply from the notion of it. To be taken by Holmes, to feel the heat of his fullness inside me while his arms encircled me and his breath flew across my skin: that was paradise indeed.

I rose to meet him, and he closed his eyes, tipped his head back in a gesture of supplication, then opened them again, and brought the full force of their passionate gaze to bear on me. I felt my mouth drop open, the better to breathe, and he held out a hand to me.

'My room?' he asked. I nodded, the faculty of speech not being one I was prepared to test at this juncture, and he turned and pulled me after him.

In his room, the door closed behind us, he let go of my hand and sat on the floor, gesturing for me to join him. I did so with a little difficulty, owing to the residual stiffness in my leg. I leant my back against the bed, and he reached across to begin disrobing me.

'Watson, you are most forgiving. What did I do to deserve you?' He said it under his breath, and I was not entirely sure that I was supposed to be able to discern his words, so I did not make any answer, but reached out to undress him.

'No no, let me,' he said, and I let my hands drop.

He undid all my buttons, leaving the garments draped, unfastened, about me, then set about his own clothes. He dealt with them agonisingly slowly, watching me closely out of the corner of his eye, no doubt aware that every second that passed left me more and more helpless. His upper garments he threw into a corner from when he sat, but he stood to remove his trousers and stockings, returning to me quite naked, and perfectly ready for whatever activity he had planned. From where I sat, I could see the drops of moisture accumulating at the tip of his erect member, and I closed my eyes to stop myself falling on him to devour it. That, I tried to remind myself, would be undignified, though I was not fully convinced of it myself.

He ran warm hands over my chest, not focusing on my nipples, but making sure to chafe them at every pass. I arched against his hands, quite unable to stop myself, and as I did so, my sleeves fell from my shoulders and were easily shrugged from my wrists.

He got to his knees, loomed over me, and pressed his lips to mine. He would not let me chase his kiss, but moved away at once, biting lightly at my chin, ruffling my moustache with his nose, touching his tongue to my temple, kissing my neck where it crested my jaw, pinching my clavicles with his teeth, sliding his cheek down over my pectorals and blowing cooling breaths across my belly.

His arm slid around my waist, lifting me as he dragged at my trousers and long johns. they caught at my knees, but that did not seem to matter, for he left them there, swiftly returning to kneel astride me.

He took my hand in his, pressed a kiss to the palm and then settled it around his hardness. He hardly required the extra stimulation, but as I pulled at him, he returned his mouth to mine, so that I ceased to care about what was necessary, and set my mind instead on what would give him pleasure.

He pulled away at last, unwrapping my reluctant fingers and putting his hands on either side of my waist. I was desperate for him to drop his head, to lick a cool swathe of moisture across my own throbbing member, but he was not to be distracted, and he pecked me quickly on the lips to gain my attention.

'Won't you kneel in front of the chair?' he asked. I nodded, got shakily to my knees, and crawled across to the armchair, resting my forehead on its cool, leathern seat, and rising to present my posterior to him.

I heard him chuckle, that rare sound, and could not find it in myself to resent it. His lips fell upon my back, hot and frantic in their movements, as his hands swirled around my hips, brushed across my front and stroked one long finger swiftly down between my buttocks, making me groan with anticipation. Then he was gone, and when he returned, it was to slick some sort of oil down that same line, once, twice, then, on the third time, to sink a single digit into me, so that my body reacted instinctively, pushing me back against him and making him tut,

'Watson! Patience, man.' He paused, then, letting that finger embedded in me move gently, he asked,

'Do you think you can take me, thus? I am loathe to wait.'

I nodded, 'Yes, yes, now. I will cope.'

I was lying, I knew I was. To imagine I could relax myself so far when I had not been taken for many years was foolish in the extreme, but I wanted him too much, and as I have stated before, the act of love makes us fools. Even medical men.

He placed his hand in in the centre of my back, and with his other hand, guided himself into me. I felt him push, willed myself to relax, felt the practised ability come into force as my sphincter bent its will to my conscious mind, rather than its own instinct. I let him in, and he entered slowly, smoothly, both his hands running up my back as he leant forward to push.

As he seated himself fully in me, the air was forced from my lungs in a tortured gasp. The pain was greater than I remembered, unsurprisingly, since I had always taken time to prepare at least a little in the past, and that a long time ago when I was younger and probably more adaptable. He did not ask me whether I was alright, but paused there as I went rigid, and ran light fingers through my hair until I untensed a little and he could move once more.

I drew my elbows up onto the chair, gripped my forehead with my hands, and waited for him to move. When he did, I gasped again, but his next stroke hit the centre of pleasure, firing off a wave to consume the pain. His mouth landed on the back of my neck, and I felt his lips move against my nape as his pelvis rocked against me, drawing the same gasp of pain from me each time, and the same moan of delight as pain succumbed to pleasure.

Then his teeth fastened upon the back of my neck, and I clenched my fingers round the cushion as my brain struggled to cope with the sensory load. Over and over he plunged into me, and I rode the pain, wanting it to continue, because it was the hard edge of Holmes that I loved so much doing this to me, and it was the feeling of him filling me that I had craved for so long.

I felt orgasm swelling in me, the bodily orgasm that only comes from internal stimulation. I let it break over me as he slapped against me, and felt his smile on my neck as I tipped my head away from him, letting it fall to one side, my eyes tightly shut. He knelt up, threw his arms around me and dragged me up to lean against his chest as he continued to push into me, lifting me up and down on him as I spasmed around him, until he climaxed, and I felt the flood deep inside me, and he groaned into my ear and held me so tightly that breathing was an effort.

I heard him swallow, heard the click of his lips as he opened them to take in more air, heard him shut them, an uncertain sound, as if he wanted to speak, but could not find the words. I leant against the chair and waited.

After a while, he took another preparatory breath, then gently pulled out of me and urged me round to face him. I leant towards him, and he kissed me. I sucked at his lips, dragged his tongue into my mouth, bit it gently, let it roam across my teeth, tickling my soft palate, then chased it back into his mouth, tasted him fully, tangled my tongue with his and followed his head down to the floor, lying myself upon him as our tongues continued to do battle, and our rapid breaths sped down our nostrils and spent themselves through the corners of our mouths, where parted lips allowed it.

My arms had gone around him, and I pulled him close, finally parting our lips and resting our cheeks alongside each other. His arms tightened around my chest, and we stayed there for a long time.

'I love you. Holmes? I love you, you know?' I spouted this foolish litany at him. He said nothing in return, but his fingers pressed more deeply into the flesh of my back, and his mouth, where it rested on my neck, pursed in a kiss and touched my skin like fire.

Tighter and tighter we gripped each other, until the pain from my protesting ribs far outmatched the ache in my bruised sphincter. I could not let him go, and nor, it seemed, could he release me. The floor was cold and hard, but we stayed there an inordinate amount of time, perhaps as much as twenty minutes. Eventually I thought he had gone to sleep, and I brought up one hand to run it through his hair. A shiver went through him and he whispered,

'Oh Watson, I have you for so short a time.'

'What?' I muttered back, not understanding him in the least.

'Never mind. Ah well, at least we shall have matching posteriors.'

That was true, mine was throbbing like the very devil, and would be better off in a soft bed than on this floor. I told him as much.

'Naturally,' he replied.

Without letting go of me for an instant, he got us into his bed, rolling under the sheets, still tightly held, each by the other.

He fell asleep at once, and I had expected to do the same, but his various hints at a rapid change in our circumstances had got under my skin, and I lay awake, listening to his snuffling breaths, as I ran over in my head what he had said.

He was proud of me. I knew that. It oozed out of every unguarded look he gave me. And he trusted me. But it was a trust that depended less on my own actions than I would like to think. It seemed that he expected me to leave him, that he was resigned to it. And that he thought the lady we had met today a likely candidate. Well, such an eventuality had not crossed my mind with her. Yes, I knew marriage was not out of the question for ever, but not soon, not as long as I could hold it off.

I tightened my grip around my friend, and he frowned in his sleep. I determined to prove him wrong. Here and now it was not difficult to do so. Never mind the awkwardness of our position with regard to society. Once you get just so far, it is almost impossible to stop, and I did not intend to stop loving Holmes. Nor did I think that he would easily do without me. My mind still whirled, carrying me back to that first moment when he had proved himself to be such an unexpected improvement on the hatstand. The memory of that sudden knowledge of rightness filled me to overflowing, proving him completely, and irrefutably wrong.

I said his name once, softly, and must have awoken him. His hand fought its way out from under the sheets, coming to rest with his fingers on my lips. His mouth was drowsily heavy, but I think his muttered sound was 'Hush.' I took it for an admission of his error, and kissed his fingertips. He was mine, and that was sufficient for any man.

I slept.


End file.
